SIX SHORT PLAYS 



THE WORKS OF 
JOHN GALSWORTHY 

FICTION 

VILLA RUBEIN: AND OTHER STORIES 

THE ISLAND PHARISEES 

THE MAN OF PROPERTY 

THE COUNTRY HOUSE 

FRATERNITY 

THE PATRICIAN 

THE DARK FLOWER 

THE FREELANDS 

BEYOND 

FIVE TALES 

SAINTS' PROGRESS 

TATTERDEMALION 

IN CHANCERY 

TO LET 

STUDIES 

A COMMENTARY 

A MOTLEY 

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY 

THE LITTLE MAN 

A SHEAF 

ANOTHER SHEAF 

ADDRESSES IN AMERICA, 1919 



POEMS 
MOODS. SONGS AND DOGGERELS 



MEMORIES (Illustrated) 
AWAKENING (Illubtbated) 

PLAYS 

FiBST Sebies: The Silver Box 

Joy 

Strife 
SscoBD Series: The Eldest Son 

The Little Dream 

Justice 
Thibd Sebies: The Fugitive 

The Pigeon 

The Mob 
Fourth Series: A Bit o' Love 



Foundations 
The Skin Game 



SIX SHORT PLAYS 



SIX SHORT PLAYS 

BY 

JOHN GALSWORTHY 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1921 

Co p r 7. 



^^. 






CoPTBiGHT, 1915, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920, 1921, BT 
CHARLES SCRIBxNER'S SONS 



Published September, 1921 



THE 8CRIBNER PRESS 



SEP 2\ 1^21 



g)Cl.A627241 



TO 
STACY AUMONIER 



CONTENTS 






FA6B 


The First and the Last . 


11 


The Little Man . . . 


47 


Hall-Marked .... 


79 


Defeat 


97 


The Sun 


. 113 


Punch and Go . 


. 123 



THE FIRST AND THE LAST 

A DRAMA 
In Three Scenes 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Keith Darrant, K.C. 
Larry Darrant, His Brother. 
Wanda. 

SCENE I. Keith's Study. 
SCENE II. Wanda's Room. 
SCENE III. The Same. 

Between SCENE I. and SCENE II.— Thirty hours. 
Between SCENE IL and SCENE III.— Two months. 



SCENE I 

It is six o'clock of a November evening, in Keith 
Darrant's study. A large, dark-curtained room 
where the light from a single reading-lamp falling 
on Turkey carpet, on books beside a large arm- 
chair, on the deep blue-and-gold coffee service, 
makes a sort of oasis before a log fire. In red 
Turkish slippers and an old brown velvet coat, 
Keith Darrant sits asleep. He has a dark, 
cleanrcut, clean-shaven face, dark grizzling hair, 
dark twisting eyebrows. 

[The curtained door away out in the dim part of the 
room behind him is opened so softly that he does 
not wake. Larry Darrant enters and stands 
half lost in the curtain over the door. A thin 
figure, with a worn, high cheekboned face, deep- 
sunk blue eyes and wavy hair all ruffled— a face 
which still has a certain beauty. He moves in- 
wards along the wall, stands still again and utters 
a gasping sigh. Keith stirs in his chair.] 

Keith. Who's there ? 

Larry. [In a stifled voice] Only I— Larry. 

Keith. [Half-waked] Come in! I was asleep. 
[He does not turn his head, staring sleepily at the fire. 
The sound of Larry's breathing can be heard. 
[Turning his head a little] Well, Larry, what is it ? 



12 THE FIRST AND sc. i 

Larry comes skirting along the wall, as if 
craving its support, outside the radius of 
the light, 
[Staring] Are you ill? 

Larry stands still again and heaves a deep 



Keith. [Rising, with his back to the fire, and staring 
at his brother] What is it, man ? [Then with a brutality 
born of nerves suddenly ruffled] Have you committed 
a murder that you stand there like a fish ? 
Larry. [In a whisper] Yes, Keith. 
Keith. [With vigorous disgust] By Jove ! Drunk 
again ! [In a voice changed by sudden apprehension] 
What do you mean by coming here in this state ? 

I told you If you weren't my brother ! 

Come here, where I can see you ! What's the matter 
with you, Larry ? 

With a lurch Larry leaves the shelter of the 
wall and sinks into a chair in the circle 
of light. 
Larry. It's true. 

Keith steps quickly forward and stares down 

into his brother^s eyes, where is a horrified 

wonder, as if they would never again get on 

terms with his face. 

Keith. [Angry, bewildered — in a low voice] What 

in God's name is this nonsense ? 

He goes quickly over to the door and draws the 
curtain aside, to see that it is shut, then 
comes back to Larry, who is huddling over 
the fire. 



SCI THE LAST 13 

Come, Larry ! Pull yourself together and drop 
exaggeration ! What on earth do you mean ? 

Larry. [In a shrill otUburst] It's true, I tell you; 
I've killed a man. 

Keith. [Bracing himself; coldly] Be quiet ! 

Larry lifts his hands and wrings them. 
[Utterly taken aback] Why come here and tell me this ? 

Larry. Whom should I tell, Keith ? I came to 
ask what I'm to do — give myself up, or what ? 

Keith. When — ^when — ^what ? 

Larry. Last night. 

Keith. Good God ! How ? Where ? You'd better 
tell me quietly from the beginning. Here, drink 
this coffee ; it'll clear your head. 

He -pours out and hands him a cup of coffee. 
Larry drinks it off. 

Larry. My head ! Yes ! It's like this, Keith— 
there's a girl 

Keith. Women ! Always women, with you ! 
Well? 

Larry. A Polish girl. She— her father died over 
here when she was sixteen, and left her all alone. 
There was a mongrel living in the same house who 
married her— or pretended to. She's very pretty, 
Keith. He left her with a baby coining. She lost 
it, and nearly starved. Then another fellow took 
her on, and she lived with him two years, till that 
brute turned up again and made her go back to him. 
He used to beat her black and blue. He'd left her 
again when I met her. She was taking anybody 
then. [He stops^ passes his hand over his lips, looks 



14 THE FIRST AND sc. i 

up at Keith, and goes on defiantly] I never met a 
sweeter woman, or a truer, that I swear. Woman ! 
She's only twenty now ! When I went to her last 
night, that devil had found her out again. He came 
for me — a bullying, great, hulking brute. Look ! 
[He touches a dark mark on his forehead] I took his 

ugly throat, and when I let go [He stops and his 

hands drop.] 

Keith. Yes ? 

Larry [In a smothered voice] Dead, Keith. I 
never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on 
to him — to h-help me. [Again he wrings his hands.] 

Keith. [In a hard, dry voice] What did you do 
then? 

Larry. We — we sat by it a long time. 

Keith. Well ? 

Larry. Then I carried it on my back down the 
street, round a corner, to an archway. 

Keith. How far ? 

Larry. About fifty yards. 

Keith. Was — did anyone see ? 

Larry. No. 

Keith. What time ? 

Larry. Three in the morning. 

Keith. And then ? 

Larry. Went back to her. 

Keith. Why — in heaven's name ? 

Larry. She was lonely and afraid. So was I, 
Keith. 

Keith. Where is this place ? 

Larry. Forty-two Borrow Square, Soho. 



SCI THE LAST 15 

Keith. And the archway ? 

Larry. Corner of Glove Lane. 

Keith. Good God ! Why, I saw it in the paper 
this morning. They were talking of it in the Courts ! 
[He snatches the evening paper from his armchair, and 
runs it over and reads] Here it is again. "Body of 
a man was found this morning under an archway 
in Glove Lane. From marks about the throat grave 
suspicion of foul play are entertained. The body 
had apparently been robbed." My God ! [Suddenly 
he turns] You saw this in the paper and dreamed it. 
D ^ou understand, Larry ? — you dreamed it. 

Larry. [Wistfully] If only I had, Keith ! 

Keith makes a movement of his hands almost 
like his brother's. 

Keith. Did you take anything from the — body ? 

Larry. [Drawing an envelope from his pocket] This 
dropped out while we were struggling. 

Keith. [Snatching it and reading] "Patrick 
Walenn" — ^Was that his name? — "Simon's Hotel, 
Farrier Street, London." [Stooping, he puts it in the 

fire] No ! — that makes me [He bends to pluck it 

out, stays his hand, and stamps it suddenly further in 
ivith hi^ foot] What in God's name made you come 
here and tell me ? Don't you know I'm — I'm within 
an ace of a Judgeship ? 

Larry. [Simply] Yes. You must know what I 
ought to do. I didn't mean to kill him, Keith. I 
love the girl — I love her. What shall I do ? 

Keith. Love ! 

Larry. [In a ^ash] Love ! — That swinish brute ! 



16 THE FIRST AND sc. i 

A million creatures die every day, and not one of 
them deserves death as he did. But— but I feel it 
here. [Touching his heart] Such an awful clutch, 
Keith. Help me if you can, old man. I may be no 
good, but I've never hurt a fly if I could help it. 
[He buries his face in his hands.] 

Keith. Steady, Larry I Let's think it out. You 
weren't seen, you say ? 

Larry. It's a dark place, and dead night. 

Keith. When did you leave the girl again ? 

Larry. About seven. 

Keith. Where did you go ? 

Larry. To my rooms. 

Keith. Fitzroy Street ? 

Larry. Yes. 

Keith. What have you done since ? 

Larry. Sat there— thinking. 

Keith. Not been out ? 

Larry. No. 

Keith. Not seen the girl ? 

Larry shakes his head. 

Will she give you away ? 

Larry. Never. 

Keith. Or herself — hysteria ? 

Larry. No. 

Keith. Who knows of your relations with her ? 

Larry. No one. 

Keith. No one ? 

Larry. I don't know who should, Keith. 

Keith. Did anyone see you go in last night, when 
you first went to her ? 



SCI THE LAST 17 

Larry. No. She lives on the ground floor. I've 
got keys. 
Keith. Give them to me. 

Larry takes two keys from his pocket and 
hands them to his brother. 
Larry. [Rising] I can't be cut off from her ! 
Keith. What ! A girl like that ? 
Larry. [With a flash] Yes, a girl like that. 
Keith. [Moving his hand to put down all emotion] 
What else have you that connects you with 
her? 
Larry. Nothing. 
Keith. In your rooms ? 

Larry shakes his head. 
Photographs ? Letters ? 
Larry. No. 
Keith. Sure ? 
Larry. Nothing. 
Keith. No one saw you going back to her ? 

Larry shakes his head. 
Nor leave in the morning ? You can't be certain. 
Larry. I am. 

Keith. You were fortunate. Sit down again, 
man. I must think. 

He turns to the fire and leans his elbows on the 
mantelpiece and his head on his hands. 
Larry sits down again obediently. 
Keith. It's all too unUkely. It's monstrous ! 
Larry. [Sighing it out] Yes. 

Keith. This Walenn — was it his first reappearance 
after an absence ? 



18 THE FIRST AND sc. i 

Larry. Yes. 

Keith. How did he find out where she was ? 

Larry. I don't know. 

Keith. [Brutally] How drunk were you ? 

Larry. I was not drunk. 

Keith. How much had you drunk, then ? 

Larry. A Uttle claret — nothing ! 

Keith. You say you didn't mean to kill him. 

Larry. God knows. 

Keith. That's something. 

Larry. He hit me. [He holds up his hands] I 
didn't know I was so strong. 

Keith. She was hanging on to him, you say ? 
—That's ugly. 

Larry. She was scared for me. 

Keith. D'you mean she — loves you ? 

Larry. [Simply] Yes, Keith. 

Keith. [Brutally] Can a woman like that 
love? 

Larry. [Flashing out] By God, you are a stony 
devil ! Why not ? 

Keith. [Dryly] I'm trying to get at truth. If you 
want me to help, I must know everything. What 
makes you think she's fond of you ? 

Larry. [With a crzay laugh] Oh, you lawyer I 
Were you never in a woman's arms ? 

Keith. I'm talking of love. 

Larry. [Fiercely] So am I. I tell you she's 
devoted. Did you ever pick up a lost dog ? Well, 
she has the lost dog's love for me. And I for her; 
we picked each other up. I've never felt for another 



SCI THE LAST 19 

woman what I feel for her — she's been the saving 
of me ! 

Keith. [With a shrttg] What made you choose that 
archway ? 

Larry. It was the first dark place. 

Keith. Did his face look as if he'd been 
strangled ? 

Larry. Don't ! 

Keith. Did it ? 

Larry hows his head. 
Very disfigured ? 

Larry. Yes. 

Keith. Did you look to see if his clothes were 
marked ? 

Larry. No. 

Keith. Why not ? 

Larry. [In an outburst] I'm not made of iron, like 
you. Why not ? If you had done it ! 

Keith. [Holding up his hand] You say he was 
disfigured. Would he be recognisable ? 

Larry. [Wearily] I don't know. 

Keith. When she lived with him last — where was 
that? 

Larry. In Pimlico, I think. 

Keith. Not Soho ? 

Larry shakes his head. 
How long has she been at this Soho place ? 

Larry. Nearly a year. 

Keith. Living this life ? 

Larry. Till she met me. 

Keith. Till she met you ? And you believe ? 



20 THE FIRST AND sc. i 

Larry. [Starting up] Keith ! 

Keith. [Again raising his hand] Always in the 
same rooms ? 

Larry. [Subsiding] Yes. 

Keith. What was he? A professional bully ? 

Larry nods. 
Spending most of his time abroad, I suppose. 

Larry. I think so. 

Keith. Can you say if he was known to the 
police ? 

Larry. I've never heard. 

Keith turns away and walks up and down; 
then, stopping at Larry's chair, he speaks. 

Keith. Now listen, Larry. When you leave here, 
go straight home, and stay there till I give you leave 
to go out again. Promise. 

Larry. I promise. 

Keith. Is your promise worth anything ? 

Larry. [With one of his flashes] "Unstable as 
water, he shall not excel !'* 

ICeith. Exactly. But if I'm to help you, you 
must do as I say. I must have time to think this 
out. Have you got money ? 

Larry. Very little. 

Keith. [Grimly] Half-quarter day — yes, your 
quarter's always spent by then. If you're to get 
away — never mind, I can manage the money. 

Larry. [Humbly] You're very good, Keith; 
you've always been very good to me — I don't know 
why. 

Keith. [Sardonically] Privilege of a brother. As 



SCI THE LAST 21 

it happens, I'm thinking of myself and our family. 
You can't indulge yourself in killing without bringing 
ruin. My God ! I suppose you realise that you've 
made me an accessory after the fact — me, King's 
Counsel — sworn to the service of the Law, who, in 
a year or two, will have the trying of cases like yours ! 
By heaven, Larry, you've surpassed yourself! 

Larry. [Bringing out a little box] Fd better have 
done with it. 

Keith. You fool ! Give that to me. 

Larry. [With a strange smile] No. [He holds up 
a tabloid between finger and thumb] White magic, 
Keith ! Just one — and they may do what they like 
to you, and you won't know it. Snap your fingers 
at all the tortures. It's a great comfort ! Have 
one to keep by you ? 

Keith. Come, Larry ! Hand it over. 

Larry. [Replacing the box] Not quite ! You've 
never killed a man, you see. [He gives that crazy laugh.] 
D'you remember that hammer when we were boys 
and you riled me, up in the long room ? I had luck 
then. I had luck in Naples once. I nearly killed a 
driver for beating his poor brute of a horse. But 

now I My God ! [He covers his face.] 

Keith touched, goes up and lays a hand on 
his shoulder. 

Keith. Come, Larry ! Courage ! 

Larry looks up at him. 

Larry. All right, Keith ; I'll try. 

Keith. Don't go out. Don't drink. Don't talk. 
Pull yourself together ! 



22 THE FIRST AND LAST sc. i 

Larry. [Moving towards the door] Don't keep me 
longer than you can help, Keith. 
Keith. No, no. Courage ! 

Larry reaches the door, turns as if to say 
something — finds no words, and goes. 
[To the fire]. Courage ! My God ! I shall need it ! 



CURTAIN 



SCENE II 

About eleven o^clock the following night in Wanda's 
room on the ground floor in Soho. In the light 
from one close-shaded electric bulb the room is but 
dimly visible. A dying fire burns on the left. A 
curtained window in the centre of the back wall. 
A door on the right. The furniture is plush- 
covered and commonplace, with a kind of shabby 
smartness. A couch, without back or arms, stands 
aslant, between window and fire. 

{On this Wanda is sitting, her knees drawn up under 
her, staring at the embers. She has on only her 
nightgown and a wrapper over it; her bare feet 
are thrust into slippers. Her hands are crossed 
and pressed over her breast. She starts and looks 
up, listening. Her eyes are candid and startled, 
her face alabaster pale, and its pale brown hair, 
short and square-cut, curls towards her bare neck. 
The startled dark eyes and the faint rose of her 
lips are like colour-staining on a white mask. 

[Footsteps as of a policeman, very measured, pass on 
the pavement outside, and die away. She gets up 
and steals to the window, draws one curtain aside 
so that a chink of the night is seen. She opens the 
curtain under, till the shape of a bare, witch-like 
tree becomes visible in the open space of the little 
Square on the far side of the road. The footsteps 

23 



24 THE FIRST AND sen 

are heard once more coming nearer. Wanda 
closes the curtains and cranes hack. They pass 
and die again. She moves away and stands 
looking down at the floor between door and couch, 
as though seeing something there; shudders; 
covers her eyes ; goes back to the couch and sits 
down again ju^t as before, to stare at the embers. 
Again she is startled by noise of the outer door 
being opened. She springs up, runs and turns out 
the light by a switch close to the door. By the dim 
glimmer of the fire she can just be seen standing 
by the dark window-curtains, listening. 
{There comes the sound of svhdu^d knocking on her door. 
She stands in breathless terror. The knocking is 
repeated. The sound of a latchkey in the door is 
heard. Her terror leaves her. The door opens; 
a man enters in a dark, fur overcoat. 

Wanda. [In a voice of breathless relief, with a rather 
foreign accent] Oh ! it's you, Larry ! Why did you 
knock? I was so frightened. Come in ! [She crosses 
quickly, and flings her arm^ round his neck] [Recoiling 
— in a terror-stricken whisper] Oh ! Who is it ? 

Keith. [In a smothered voice] A friend of Larry's. 
Don't be frightened. 

She ha^ recoiled again to the window; and 
when he flnds the switch and turns the light 
up, she is seen standing there holding her 
dark wrapper up to her throat, so that her 
face has an uncanny look of being detached 
from the body. 



sc. II THE LAST 25 

[Gently] You needn't be afraid. I haven't come to 
do you harm — quite the contrary. [Holding up the 
keys] Larry wouldn't have given me these, would 
he, if he hadn't trusted me ? 

Wanda does not move, staring like a spirit 
startled out of the flesh. 
[After looking round him] I'm sorry to have startled 
you. 

Wanda. [In a whisper] Who are you, please ? 

Keith. Larry's brother. 

Wanda, urith a sigh of utter relief, steals for- 
ward to the couch and sinks down. Keith 
goes up to her. 
He's told me. 

Wanda. [Clasping her hands round her knees.] Yes ? 

Keith. An awful business ! 

Wanda. Yes ; oh, yes ! Awful — it is awful ! 

Keith. [Staring round him again.] In this room ? 

Wanda. Just where you are standing. I see him 
now, always falling. 

Keith. [Moved by the gentle despair in her voice] 
You look very young. What's your name ? 

Wanda. Wanda. 

Keith. Are you fond of Larry ? 

Wanda. I would die for him ! 

A moment's silence. 

Keith. I — I've come to see what you can do to 
save him. 

Wanda. [Wistfully] You would not deceive me. 
You are really his brother ? 

Keith. I swear it. 



26 THE FIRST AND sen 

Wanda. [Clasping her hands] If I can save him ! 
Won't you sit down ? 

Keith. [Drawing up a chair and sitting] This man, 
your — ^your husband, before he came here the night 
before last — how long since you saw him ? 

Wanda. Eighteen month. 

Keith. Does anyone about here know you are 
his wife ? 

Wanda. No. I came here to live a bad life. 
Nobody know me. I am quite alone. 

Keith. They've discovered who he was — you 
know that ? 

Wanda. No ; I have not dared to go out. 

Keith. Well, they have; and they'll look for any- 
one connected with him, of course. 

Wanda. He never let people think I was married 
to him. I don't know if I was — really. We went 
to an office and signed our names; but he was a 
wicked man. He treated many, I think, like me. 

Keith. Did my brother ever see him before ? 

Wanda. Never 1 And that man first went for him. 

Keith. Yes. I saw the mark. Have you a 
servant ? 

Wanda. No. A woman come at nine in the 
morning for an hour. 

Keith. Does she know Larry ? 

Wanda. No. He is always gone. 

Keith. Friends — acquaintances ? 

Wanda. No; I am verree quiet. Since I know 
your brother, I see no one, sare. 

Keith. [Sharply] Do you mean that ? 



sc. II THE LAST 27 

Wanda. Oh, yes ! I love him. Nobody come 
here but him for a long time now. 

Keith. How long ? 

Wanda. Five month. 

Keith. So you have not been out since ? 

Wanda shakes her head. 
What have you been doing ? 

Wanda. [Simply] Crying. [Pressing her hands to 
her breast] He is in danger because of me. I am so 
afraid for him. 

Keith. [Checking her emotion] Look at me. 

She looks at him. 
If the worst comes, and this man is traced to you, 
can you trust yourself not to give Larry away ? 

Wanda. [Rising and pointing to the fire] Look ! 
I have burned all the things he have given me — even 
his picture. Now I have nothing from him. 

Keith. [Who has risen too] Good ! One more 
question. Do the police know you — because — of 
your life ? 

She looks at him intently, and shakes her head. 

You know where Larry lives ? 

Wanda. Yes. 

Keith. You mustn't go there, and he mustn't 
come to you. 

She bows her head; then suddenly comes close 
to him. 

Wanda. Please do not take him from me altogether. 
I will be so careful. I will not do anything to hurt 
him. But if I cannot see him sometimes, I shall die. 
Please do not take him from me. 



28 THE FIRST AND sen 

She catches his hand and presses it desperately 
between her own. 
Keith. Leave that to me. I'm going to do all I can. 
Wanda. [Looking up into his face] But you will 
be kind ? 

Suddenly she bends and kisses his hand. 
Keith draws his hand away, and she 
recoils a little humbly, looking up at him 
again. Suddenly she stands rigid, listenr 
ing. 
[In a whisper] Listen ! Someone — out there ! 

She darts past him and turns out the light. 
There is a knock on the door. They are 
now close together between door and window. 
{Whispering] Oh ! Who is it ? 

Keith. [Under his breath] You said no one comes 
but Larry. 

Wanda. Yes, and you have his keys. Oh ! if it 
is Larry ! I must open ! 

Keith shrinks back against the wall. Wanda 
goes to the door. 
[Opening the door an inch] Yes ? Please ? Who ? 

A thin streak of light from a bulVs-eye lantern 
outside plays over the wall. A Policeman^s 
voice says: "All right, Miss. Your outer 
door's open. You ought to keep it shut 
after dark, you know.'' 
Wanda. Thank you, sir. 

The sound of retreating footsteps, of the outer 
door closing. Wanda shuts the door. 
A policeman ! 



sc. II THE LAST 29 

Keith. [Moving from the wall] Curse ! I must 
have left that door. [Suddenly — turning up the light] 
You told me they didn't know you. 

Wanda. [Sighing] I did not think they did, sir. 
It is so long I was not out in the town; not since I 
had Larry. 

Keith gives her an intent look, then crosses to 
the fire. He stands there a moment, looking 
down, then turns to the girl, who has crept 
hack to the couch. 

Keith. [Half to himself] After your life, who can 

believe ? Look here ! You drifted together 

and you'll drift apart, you know. Better for him to 
get away and make a clean cut of it. 

Wanda. [Uttering a little moaning sound] Oh, sir ! 
May I not love, because I have been bad ? I was 
only sixteen when that man spoiled me. If you 
knew 

Keith. I'm thinking of Larry. With you, his 
danger is much greater. There's a good chance as 
things are going. You may wreck it. And for what ? 
Just a few months more of — ^well — you know. 

Wanda. [Standing at the head of the couch and 
touching her eyes with her hands] Oh, sir ! Look ! 
It is true. He is my life.' Don't take him away 
from me. 

Keith. [Moved and restless] You must know what 
Larry is. He'll never stick to you. 

Wanda. [Simplij] He will, sir. 

Keith. [Energetically] The last man on earth to 
stick to anything ! But for the sake of a whim he'll 



30 THE FIRST AND sen 

risk his life and the honour of all his family. I know 
him. 

Wanda. No, no, you do not. It is I who know 
him. 

Keith. Now, now ! At any moment they may 
find out your connection with that man. So long as 
Larry goes on with you, he's tied to this murder, don't 
you see ? 

Wanda. [Coming close to him] But he love me. 
Oh, sir ! he love me ! 

Keith. Larry has loved dozens of women. 

Wanda. Yes, but [Her face quivers]. 

Keith. [Brusquely] Don't cry ! If I give you 
money, will you disappear, for his sake ? 

Wanda. [With a moan] It will be in the water, 
then. There will be no cruel men there. 

Keith. Ah ! First Larry, then you ! Come now. 
It's better for you both. A few months, and you'll 
forget you ever met. 

Wanda. [Looking wildly wp] I will go if Larry say 
I must. But not to live. No ! [Simyly] I could 
not, sir. 

Keith, moved, is silent. 
1 could not live without Larry. What is left for a 
girl like me — ^when she once love ? It is finish. 

Keith. I don't want you to go back to that life. 

Wanda. No; you do not care what I do. Why 
should you ? I tell you I will go if Larry say 
I must. 

Keith. That's not enough. You know that. 
You must take it out of his hands. He will never 



sen THE LAST 31 

give up his present for the sake of his future If 
you re as fond of him as you say, you'll help to 
save him. 

Wanda. [Below her breath] Yes ! Oh, yes f But 
do not keep him long from me-I beg ! [She sinks to 
the floor and clasps his knees.] 

Keith. Well, well ! Get up. 
J. ^^^^^ *"s « iap on the window-pane 

rrr rn ^ ^^'^^^' pecuUar wUstU. 

Wanda. [Springing up] Larry ! Oh, thank God ! 

She runs to the door, opens it, and goes out to 

bring him in. Keith stands waiting, 

facing the open doorway. 

Larry entering with Wanda just behind him. 

Larry. Keith ! 

Keith. [Grimly] So much for your promise not to 
go out ! 

Larry. IVe been waiting in for you all day. I 
couldn't stand it any longer. 

Keith. Exactly ! 

Larry. Well, what's the sentence, brother? 

Transportation for life and then to be fined forty 

pounds ' ? "^ 

Keith. So you can joke, can you ? 

Larry. Must. 

Keith. A boat leaves for the Argentine the day 
atter to-morrow; you must go by it. 

Larry. [Putting his arms round Wanda, who is 
standing motionless with her eyes fixed on him] 
Together, Keith ? 



32 THE FIRST AND sen 

Keith. You can't go together. I'll send her by 
the next boat. 
Laery. Swear? 

Keith. Yes. You're lucky— they're on a false 

scent. 
Larry. What ! 
Keith. You haven't seen it ? 
Larry. I've seen nothing, not even a paper. 
Keith. They've taken up a vagabond who robbed 
the body. He pawned a snake-shaped ring, and 
they identified this Walenn by it. I've been down 
and seen him charged myself. 
Larry. With murder ? 
Wanda. [Faintly] Larry ! 

Keith. He's in no danger. They always get the 
wrong man first. It'll do him no harm to be locked 
up a bit— hyena like that. Better in prison, anyway, 
than sleeping out under archways in this weather. 
Larry. What was he like, Keith ? 
Keith. A little yellow, ragged, lame, unshaven 
scarecrow of a chap. They were fools to think he 
could have had the strength. 

Larry. What ! [In an awed voice] Why, I saw 
him— after I left you last night. 
Keith. You ? Where ? 
Larry. By the archway. 
Keith. You went back there ? 
Larry. It draws you, Keith. 
Keith. You're mad, I think. 
Larry. I talked to him, and he said, "Thank 
you for this little chat. It's worth more than money 



sc. II THE LAST 33 

when you're down." Little grey man like a shaggy 
animal. And a newspaper boy came up and said: 
''That's right, guv'nors ! 'Ere's where they found 
the body — very spot. They 'yn't got 'im yet." 

He laughs; and the terrified girl presses her- 
self against him. 
An innocent man ! 

Keith. He's in no danger, I tell you. He could 

never have strangled Why, he hadn't the 

strength of a kitten. Now, Larry ! I'll take your 
berth to-morrow. Here's money [He brings out a 
pile of notes and puts them on the couch] You can make 
a new life of it out there together presently, in the 
sun. 

Larry. [In a whisper] In the sun ! "A cup of 
wine and thou." [Suddenkj] How can I, Keith ? I 
must see how it goes with that poor devil. 

Keith. Bosh ! Dismiss it from your mind; 
there's not nearly enough evidence. 

Larry. Not ? 

Keith. No. You've got your chance. Take it 
like a man. 

Larry. [With a strange smile — to the girl] Shall we, 
Wanda ? 

Wanda. Oh, Larry ! 

Larry. [Picking the notes up from the couch] Take 
them back, Keith. 

Keith. What ! I tell you no jury would convict ; 
and if they did, no judge would hang. A ghoul who 
can rob a dead body, ought to be in prison. He did 
worse than you. 



34 THE FIRST AND sen 

Larry. It won't do, Keith. I must see it out. 

Keith. Don't be a fool ! 

Larry. I've still got some kind of honour. If I 
clear out before I know, I shall have none — nor 
peace. Take them, Keith, or I'll put them in the fire. 

Keith. [Taking back the notes; bitterly] I suppose 
I may ask you not to be entirely oblivious of our 
name. Or is that unworthy of your honour ? 

Larry. [Hanging his head] I'm awfully sorry, 
Keith ; awfully sorry, old man. 

Keith. [Sternly] You owe it to me — to our name 
— to our dead mother — to do nothing anyway till 
we see what happens. 

Larry. I know. I'll do nothing without you, 
Keith. 

Keith. [Taking up his hat] Can I trust you ? 
[He stares hard at his brother.] 

Larry. You can trust me. 

Keith. Swear ? 

Larry. I swear. 

Keith. Remember, nothing! Good night I 

Larry. Good night ! 

Keith goes. 
Larry sits down on the couch and stares at 
the fire. The girl steals up and slips her 
arms about him. 

Larry. An innocent man ! 

Wanda. Oh, Larry ! But so are you. What did 
we want — to kill that man ? Never I Oh ! kiss 
me ! 

Larry turns his face. She kisses his lips. 



sen THE LAST 35 

I have suffered so — not seein' you. Don't leave 
me again — don't ! Stay here. Isn't it good to be 
together ? — Oh ! Poor Larry ! How tired you look ! 
— Stay with me. I am so frightened all alone. So 
frightened they will take you from me. 

Larry. Poor child ! 

Wanda. No, no ! Don't look like that ! 

Larry. You're shivering. 

Wanda. I will make up the fire. Love me, 
Larry ! I want to forget. 

Larry. The poorest little wretch on God's earth 
— locked up — for me ! A little wild animal, locked 
up. There he goes, up and down, up and down — 
in his cage — don't you see him ? — ^looking for a place 
to gnaw his way through — little grey rat. [He gets 
up and roams about.] 

Wanda. No, no ! I can't bear it ! Don't frighten 
me more ! 

He comes back and takes her in his arms. 

Larry. There, there ! [He kisses her closed eyes.] 

Wanda. [Without moving] If we could sleep a 
little — ^wouldn't it be nice ? 

Larry. Sleep ? 

Wanda. [Raising herself] Promise to stay with 
me — to stay here for good, Larry. I will cook for 
you; I will make you so comfortable. They will 
find him innocent. And then — Oh, Larry ! — in the 
sun — right away — far from this horrible country. 
How lovely ! [Trying to get him to look at her] Larry ! 

Larry. [With a movement to free himself] To the 
edge of the world — and — over ! 



36 THE FIRST AND LAST sen 

Wanda. No, no ! No, no ! You don't want me 
to die, Larry, do you ? I shall if you leave me. Let 
us be happy ! Love me ! 

Larry. [With a laiigh] Ah ! Let's be happy and 
shut out the sight of him. Who cares ? Millions 
suffer for no mortal reason. Let's be strong, like 
Keith. No ! I won't leave you, Wanda. Let's 
forget everything except ourselves. [Suddenly] There 
he goes — up and down ! 

Wanda. [Moaning] No, no ! See ! I will pray to 
the Virgin. She will pity us ! 

She falls on her knees and clasps her hands, 
praying. Her lips move. Larry stands 
motionless, with arms crossed, and on his 
face are yearning and mockery, love and 
despair. 
Larry. [Whispering] Pray for us ! Bravo ! 
Pray away ! 

Suddenly the girl stretches out her arms and 
lifts her face with a look of ecstasy. 
What? 
Wanda. She is smiling ! We shall be happy soon. 
Larry. [Bending down over her] Poor child ! 
When we die, Wanda, let's go together. We should 
keep each other warm out in the dark. 

Wanda. [Raising her hands to his face] Yes ! oh, 
yes ! If you die I could not — I could not go on 
living ! 



CUHTAIN 



SCENE III 

Two Months Later 

Wanda's room. Daylight is just beginning to fail of 
a January afternoon. The table is laid for supper, 
with decanters of wine. 

Wanda is standing at the window looking out 

at the wintry trees of the Square beyond 

the pavement. A newspaper Boy's voice 

is heard coming nearer. 

Voice. Pyper ! Glove Lyne murder ! Trial and 

verdict ! [Receding] Verdict ! Pyper ! 

Wanda throws up the window as if to call to 
him, checks herself, closes it and runs to 
the door. She opens it, but recoils into the 
room. Keith is standing there. He comes 
in. 
Keith. Where's Larry ? 

Wanda. He went to the trial. I could not keep 
him from it. The trial — Oh ! what has happened, sir ? 
Keith. [Savagely] Guilty ! ^Sentence of death ! 
Fools ! — idiots ! 

Wanda. Of death ! [For a moment she seems about 
to swoon.] 

Keith. Girl! girl! It may all depend on you. 
Larry's still living here ? 
Wanda. Yes. 

37 



88 THE FIRST AND sc. iii 

Keith. I must wait for him. 

Wanda. Will you sit down, please ? 

Keith. [Shaking his head] Are you ready to go 
away at any time ? 

Wanda. Yes, yes ; always I am ready. 

Keith. And he ? 

Wanda. Yes — but now ! What will he do ? 
That poor man ! 

Keith. A graveyard thief — a ghoul ! 

Wanda. Perhaps he was hungry. I have been 
hungry: you do things then that you would 
not. Larry has thought of him in prison so 
much all these weeks. Oh ! what shall we do 
now? 

Keith. Listen ! Help me. Don't let Larry out 
of your sight. I must see how things go. They'll 
never hang this wretch. [He grips her arms] Now, 
we must stop Larry from giving himself up. He's 
fool enough. D'you understand ? 

Wanda. Yes. But why has he not come in ? 
Oh ! If he have, already ! 

Keith. [Letting go her arms] My God ! If the 
police come — ^find me here — [He moves to the door] 
No, he wouldn't — without seeing you first. He's 
sure to come. Watch him like a lynx. Don't let 
him go without you. 

Wanda. [Clasping her hands on her breast] I will 
try, sir. 

Keith. Listen ! 

A key is heard in the lock. 
It's he ! 



sc. Ill THE LAST 39 

Larry enters. He is holding a great hunch 
of pink lilies and white narcissus. His 
face tells nothing. Keith looks from him 
to the girl, who stands motionless. 
Larry. Keith ! So you've seen ? 
Keith. The thing can't stand. I'll stop it some- 
how. But you must give me time, Larry. 

Larry. [Calmly] Still looking after your honour, 
Keith ? 
Keith. [Grimhj] Think my reasons what you like. 
Wanda. [Softhj] Larry ! 

Larry puts his arm round her, 
Larry. Sorry, old man. 

Keith. This man can and shall get off. I want 
your solemn promise that you won't give yourself 
up, nor even go out till I've seen you again. 
Larry. I give it. 

Keith. [Looking from one to the other] By the 
memory of our mother, swear that. 
Larry. [With a smile] I swear. 
Keith. I have your oath— both of you— both of 
you. I'm going at once to see what can be done. 
Larry. [Softly] Good luck, brother. 

Keith goes out. 
Wanda. [Putting her hands on Larry's breast] 
What does it mean ? 

Larry. Supper, child— I've had nothing all day. 
Put these lilies in water. 

She takes the lilies and obediently puts them 
into a vase. Larry pours wine into a 
deep-coloured glass and drinks it off. 



40 THE FIRST AND sc. iii 

We've had a good time, Wanda. Best time I ever 
had, these last two months; and nothing but the 
bill to pay. 

Wanda. [Clasping him desperately] Oh, Larry ! 
Larry ! 

Larry. [Holding her away to look at her.] Take ofif 
those things and put on a bridal garment. 

Wanda. Promise me — ^wherever you go, I go too. 
Promise ! Larry, you think I haven't seen, all these 
weeks. But I have seen everything; all in your 
heart, always. You cannot hide from me. I knew 
• — I knew! Oh, if we might go away into the sun ! 
Oh ! Larry — couldn't we ? [She searches his eyes 
with hers — then shuddering] Well ! If it must be 
dark — I don't care, if I may go in your arms. In 
prison we could not be together. I am ready. Only 
love me first. Don't let me cry before I go. Oh ! 
Larry, will there be much pain ? 

Larry. [In a choked voice] No pain, my pretty. 

Wanda. [With a little sigh] It is a pity. 

Larry. If you had seen him, as I have, all day, 
being tortured. Wanda, we shall be out of it. [The 
wine mounting to his head] We shall be free in the 
dark; free of their cursed inhumanities. I hate this 
world — I loathe it ! I hate its God-forsaken 
savagery; its pride and smugness ! Keith's world 
— all righteous will-power and success. We're no 
good here, you and I — we were cast out at birth — 
soft, will-less — better dead. No fear, Keith ! I'm 
staying indoors. [He pours wine into two glasses] 
Drink it up ! 



sc. Ill THE LAST 41 

Obediently Wanda drinks, and he also. 
Now go and make yourself beautiful. 
Wanda. [Seizing him in her arms] Oh, Larry ! 
Larry. [Touching her face and hair] Hanged by 
the neck until he's dead — for what I did. 

Wanda takes a long look at his face, slips her 
arms from him, and goes out through the 
curtains below the fireplace. 
Larry feels in his pocket, brings out the little 
box, opens it, fingers the white tabloids. 
Larry. Two each — after food. [He laughs and puts 
back the box] Oh ! my girl ! 

The sound of a piano playing a faint festive 
tune is heard afar off. He mutters, staring 
at the fire. 
Flames — flame, and flicker — ashes. 

**No more, no more, the moon is dead, 

And all the people in it." 
He sits on the couch with a piece of paper on 
his knees, adding a few words with a stylo 
pen to what is already written. 
The Girl, in a silk wrapper, coming back 
through the curtains, watches him. 
Larry. [Looking up] It's all here — I've confessed. 
[Reading] '* Please bury us together. 

*' Laurence D arrant. 
"January 2Sth, about six p.m." 
They'll find us in the morning. Come and have 
supper, my dear love. 

The girl creeps forward. He rises, puts his 
arm round her, and with her arm twined 



42 THE FIRST AND sc. iii 

round him, smiling into each other^s faces, 
they go to the table and sit down. 
The curtain falls for a few seconds to indicate 
the passage of three hours. When it rises 
again, the lovers are lying on the coux^h, 
in each other^s arms, the lilies strewn about 
them. The girVs bare arm is round Larry's 
neck. Her eyes are closed ; his are open and 
sightless. There is no light but fire-light. 
A knocking on the door and the sound of a 
key turned in the lock. Keith enters. He 
stands a moment bewildered by the half- 
light, then calls sharply: ''Larry!" and 
turns up the light. Seeing the forms on 
the couch, he recoils a moment. Then, 
glancing at the table and empty decanters, 
goes up to the couch. 
Keith. [Muttering] Asleep ! Drunk ! Ugh ! 

Suddenly he bends, touches Larry, and springs 
back. 

What ! [He bends again, shakes him and calls] Larry ! 

Larry ! 

Then, motionless, he stares down at his brother's 
open, sightless eyes. Suddenly he wets 
his finger and holds it to the girVs lips, then 
to Larry's. 

Larry ! 

He bends and listens at their hearts; catches 
sight of the little box lying between them 
and takes it up. 

My God ! 



sc. Ill THE LAST 43 

Then, raising himself, he closes his brother's 

eyes, and as he does so, catches sight of a 

paper pinned to the couch; detaches it 

and reads : 

**I, Laurence Darrant, about to die by my own hand 

confess that I " 

He reads on silently, in horror; finishes, 
letting tJw paper drop, and recoils from the 
couch on to a chair at the dishevelled supper 
table. Aghast, he sits there. Suddenly 
he mutters : 
If I leave that there — my name— my whole future !— 
He springs up, takes up the paper again, and 
again reads. 
My God ! It's ruin ! 

He makes as if to tear it across, stops, and looks 
down at those two; covers his eyes with 
his hand; drops the paper and rushes to 
the door. But he stops there and comes 
back, magnetised, as it were, by that paper. 
He takes it up once more and thrusts it 
into his pocket. 
The footsteps of a Policeman pass, slow and 
regular, outside. His face crisps and 
quivers; he stands listening till they die 
away. Then he snatches the paper from 
his pocket, and goes past the foot of the couch 
to the fire. 

All my No ! Let him hang I 

He thrusts the paper into the fire, stamps it 
down with his foot, watches it writhe and 



44 THE FIRST AND LAST sc. iii 

blacken. Then suddenly clutching his 
head, he turns to the bodies on the couch. 
Panting and like a man demented, he 
recoils past the head of the couch, and rushing 
to the window, draws the curtains and throws 
the window up for air. Out in the darkness 
rises the witch-like skeleton tree, where a 
dark shape seems hanging, Keith starts 
back. 
What's that ? What ! 

He shuts the window and draws the dark 
curtains across it again. 
Fool ! Nothing ! 

Clenching his Jlsts, he draws himself up, 
steadying himself with all his might. Then 
slowly he moves to the door, stands a second 
like a carved figure, his face hard as stone. 

Deliberately he turns out the light, opens the 
door, and goes. 

The still bodies lie there before the fire which is 
licking at the last blackened wafer. 



CUBTAIN 



THE LITTLE MAN 

A FARCICAL MORALITY 
In Three Scenes 



CHARACTERS 



The Little Man. 
The American. 
The Englishman. 
The Englishwoman. 
The German. 
The Dutch Boy. 



The Mother. 

The Baby. 

The Waiter. 

The Station Official. 

The Policeman. 

The Porter. 



SCENE I 

Afternoon, on the departure 'platform of an Austrian 
railway station. At several little tables outside 
the buffet persons are taking refreshment, served 
by a pale young waiter. On a seat against the 
wall of the buffet a woman of lowly station is 
sitting beside two large bundles, on one of which 
she has placed her baby, swathed in a black 
shawl. 

Waiter. [Approaching a table whereat sit an 
English traveller and his wife] Two coffee ? 

Englishman. [Paying] Thanks. [To his wife, in 
an Oxford voice] Sugar ? 

Englishwoman. [In a Cambridge voice] One. 

American Traveller. [With field-glasses and a 
pocket camera — from another table] Waiter, I'd like 
to have you get my eggs. IVe been sitting here quite 
a while. 

Waiter. Yes, sare. 

German Traveller. Kellner, bezahlen ! [His 
voice is, like his moustache, stiff and brushed up at the 
ends. His figure also is stiff and his hair a little grey; 
clearly once, if not now, a colonel.] 

Waiter. Komm' gleich ! 

The baby on the bundle wails. The mother 
takes it up to soothe it. A young, red- 

47 



48 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i 

cheeked Dutchman at the fourth table stops 
eating and laughs, 
American. My eggs ! Get a wiggle on you ! 
Waiter. Yes, sare. [He rapidly recedes.] 

A Little Man in a soft hat is seen to the right 
of tables. He stands a moment looking 
after the hurrying waiter, then seats himself 
at the fifth table. 
Englishman. [Looking at his watch] Ten minutes 
more. 
Englishwoman. Bother ! 

American. [Addressing them] Tears as if they'd 
a prejudice against eggs here, anyway. 

The English look at him, but do not speak. 
German. [In creditable English] In these places 
man can get nothing. 

The Waiter comes flying back with a compote 
for the Dutch Youth, who pays. 
German. Kellner, bezahlen ! 
Waiter. Eine Krone sechzig. 

The German pays. 
American. [Rising, and taking out his watch — 
blandly] See here. If I don't get my eggs before 
this watch ticks twenty, there'll be another waiter 
in heaven. 
Waiter. [Flying] Komm' gleich ! 
American. [Seeking sympathy] I'm gettin* kind 
of mad ! 

The Englishman halves his newspaper and 
hands the advertisement half to his wife. 
The Baby wails. The Mother rocks it. 



THE LITTLE MAN 49 

The Dutch Youth stops eating and laughs. 
The German lights a cigarette. The 
Little Man sits motionless, nursing his 
hat. The Waiter comes flying back 
with the eggs and places them before the 
American. 
American. [Putting away his watch] Good ! I 
don't like trouble. How much ? 

He pays and eats. The Waiter stands a 
moment at the edge of the platform and 
passes his hand across his brow. The 
Little Man eyes him and speaks gently. 
Little Man. Herr Ober ! 

The Waiter turns. 
Might I have a glass of beer ? 
Waiter. Yes, sare. 
Little Man. Thank you very much. 

The Waiter goes. 
American. [Pausing in the deglutition of his eggs — 
affably] Pardon me, sir; Fd like to have you tell 
me why you called that little bit of a feller "Herr 
Ober." Reckon you would know what that means ? 
Mr Head Waiter. 
Little Man. Yes, yes. 
American. I smile. 

Little Man. Oughtn't I to call him that ? 
German. [Abruptly] Nein — Kellner. 
American. Why, yes ! Just "waiter.'* 

The Englishwoman looks round her paper 
for a second. The Dutch Youth stops 
eating and laughs. The Little Man 



50 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i 

gazes from face to face and nurses his 
hat. 

Little Man. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. 

German. Gott ! 

American. In my country we're very democratic 
■ — but that's quite a proposition. 

Englishman. [Handling coffee-pot, to his wife] 
More? 

Englishwoman. No, thanks. 

German. [Abruptly] These fellows — if you treat 
them in this manner, at once they take liberties. 
You see, you will not get your beer. 

As he speaks the Waiter returns, bringing 
the Little Man's beer, then retires. 

American. That 'pears to be one up to democracy. 
[To the Little Man] I judge you go in for brother- 
hood ? 

Little Man. [Startled] Oh, no ! 

American. I take considerable stock in Leo 
Tolstoi myself. Grand man — grand-souled appa- 
ratus. But I guess you've got to pinch those waiters 
some to make 'em skip. [To the English, who 
have carelessly looked his way for a moment] You'll 
appreciate that, the way he acted about my 
eggs. 

The English make faint motions with their 
chins and avert their eyes. 
[To the Waiter, who is standing at the door of the 
buffet] Waiter ! Flash of beer — jump, now ! 

Waiter. Komm' gleich ! 

German. Cigarren ! 



SCI THE LITTLE MAN 51 

Waiter. Schon ! 

He disappears. 

American. [Affably — to the Little Man] Now, 
if I don't get that flash of beer quicker'n you got 
yours, I shall admire. 

German. [Abruptly] Tolstoi is nothing — nichts ! 
No good ! Ha ? 

American. [Relishing the approach of argument] 
Well, that is a matter of temperament. Now, I'm 
all for equality. See that poor woman there — very 
humble woman — ^there she sits among us with her 
baby. Perhaps you'd like to locate her somewhere 
else? 

German. [Shrugging]. Tolstoi is sentimentalisch. 
Nietzsche is the true philosopher, the only one. 

American. Well, that's quite in the prospectus — 
very stimulating party — old Nietch^— virgin mind. 
But give me Leo ! [He turv^ to the red-cheeked Youth] 
What do you opine, sir ? I guess by your labels 
you'll be Dutch. Do they read Tolstoi in your 
country ? 

The Dutch Youth laughs. 

American. That is a very luminous answer. 

German. Tolstoi is nothing. Man should himself 
express. He must push — ^he must be strong. 

American. That is so. In America we believe in 
virility; we like a man to expand. But we believe 
in brotherhood too. We draw the line at niggers; 
but we aspire. Social barriers and distinctions 
we've not much use for. 

Englishman. Do you feel a draught ? 



52 THE LITTLE MAN sc. I 

Englishwoman. [With a shiver of her shoulder 
toward the American] I do — ^rather. 

German. Wait ! You are a young people. 

American. That is so; there are no flies on us. 
[To the Little Man, who has been gazing eagerly 
from face to face] Say ! I'd like to have you 
give us your sentiments in relation to the duty 
of man. 

The Little Man fidgets, and is abovi to open 
his mouth, 

American. For example — is it your opinion that 
we should kill off the weak and diseased, and all that 
can't jump around ? 

German. [Nodding] Ja, ja ! That is coming. 

Little Man. [Looking from face to face] They 
might be me. 

The Dutch Youth laughs, 

American. {Reproving him with a look] That's 
true humility. 'Tisn't grammar. Now, here's a 
proposition that brings it nearer the bone: Would 
you step out of your way to help them when it was 
liable to bring you trouble ? 

German. Nein, nein I That is stupid. 

Little Man. [Eager but wistful] I'm afraid not. 
Of course one wants to — There was St Francis 
d'Assisi and St Julien I'Hospitalier, and 

American. Very lofty dispositions. Guess they 
died of them. [He rises] Shake hands, sir — my 
name is — [He hands a card] I am an ice-machine 
maker. [He shakes the Little Man's hand] 1 like 
your sentiments— I feel kind of brotherly. [Catching 



SCI THE LITTLE MAN 53 

sight of the Waiter appearing in the doorway] Waiter^ 
where to h— 11 is that flash of beer ? 

German. Cigarren ! 

Waiter. Komm' gleich ! 

He vanishes. 

Englishman. [Consulting watch] Train's late. 
Englishwoman. Really ! Nuisance ! 

A station Policeman, very square and 
uniformed, passes and repasses. 
American. [Resuming his seat— to the German] 
Now, we don't have so much of that in America. 
Guess we feel more to trust in human nature. 

German. Ah ! ha ! you will bresently find there 
is nothing in him but self. 

Little Man. [Wistfully] Don't you believe in 
human nature ? 
American. Very stimulating question. 

He looks round for opinions. 

The Dutch Youth laughs. 

Englishman. [Holding out his half of the paper to 

his wife] Swap ! 

His wife swaps. 

German. In human nature I believe so far as I 
can see him — no more. 

American. Now that 'pears to me kind o' 
blasphemy. I believe in heroism. I opine there's 
not one of us settin' around here that's not a hero- 
give him the occasion. 

Little Man. Oh ! Do you believe that ? 

American. Well ! I judge a hero is just a person 
that'll help another at the expense of himself. Take 



54 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i 

that poor woman there. Well, now, she's a heroine, 
I guess. She would die for her baby any old time. 

German. Animals will die for their babies. That 
is nothing. 

American. I carry it further. I postulate we 
would all die for that baby if a locomotive was to 
trundle up right here and try to handle it. [To the 
German] I guess you don't know how good you 
are. [As the German is tivisting up the ends of his 
moustache — to the Englishwoman] I should like to 
have you express an opinion, ma'am. 

Englishwoman. I beg your pardon. 

American. The EngUsh are very humanitarian; 
they have a very high sense of duty. So have the 
Germans, so have the Americans. [To the Dutch 
Youth] I judge even in your little country they have 
that. This is an epoch of equality and high-toned ideals. 
[To the Little Man] What is your nationality, sir ? 

Little Man. I'm afraid I'm nothing particular. 
My father was half-English and half-American, and 
my mother half-German and half-Dutch. 

American. My ! That's a bit streaky, any old 
way. [The Policeman passes again] Now, I don't 
believe we've' much use any more for those gentlemen 
in buttons. We've grown kind of mild — we don't 
think of self as we used to do. 

The Waiter has appeared in the doorway. 

German. [In a voice of thunder] Cigarren ! 
Donnerwetter ! 

American. [Shaking his fist at the vanishing 
Waiter] That flash of beer! 



SCI THE LITTLE MAN 55 

Waiter. Komm' gleicli ! 

Ameeican. a little more, and he will join George 
Washington ! I was about to remark when he 
intruded: In this year of grace 1913 the kingdom 
of Christ is quite a going concern. We are mighty 
near to universal brotherhood. The colonel here 
[He indicates the German] is a man of blood and 
iron, but give him an opportunity to be magnanimous, 
and he'll be right there. Oh, sir ! yep ! 

The German, with a profound mixture of 
pleasure and cynicism, brushes up the ends 
of his moustache. 
Little Man. I wonder. One wants to, but 

somehow [He shakes his head.] 

American. You seem kind of skeery about that. 
You've had experience, maybe. I'm an optimist 
— I think we're bound to make the devil hum in the 
near future. I opine we shall occasion a good deal 
of trouble to that old party. There's about to be 
a holocaust of selfish interests. The colonel there with 
old-man Nietch — ^he won't know himself. There's 
going to be a very sacred opportunity. 

As he speakSf the voice of a Railway Official 

is heard in the distance calling out in 

German. It approaches, and the words 

become audible. 

German. [Startled] Der Teufel ! [He gets up, and 

seizes the bag beside him.] 

The Station Official has appeared; he 
stands for a moment casting his commands 
at the seated group. The Dutch Youth 



56 THE LITTLE MAN sc. i 

also riseSy and takes his coat and hat. The 
Official turns on his heel and retires^ 
still issuing directions. 
Englishman. What does he say ? 
German. Our drain has come in, de oder platform ; 
only one minute we haf. 

All have risen in a fluster. 
American. Now, that's very provoking. 1 won't 
get that flash of beer. 

There is a general scurry to gather coats and 
hats and wraps, during which the lowly 
Woman is seen making desperate attempts 
to deal with her baby and the two large 
bundles. Quite defeated, she suddenly puts 
all down, wrings her hands, and cries out: 
"Herr Jesu! Hilfe!" The flying pro- 
cession turn their heads at that strange cry. 
American. What's that ? Help ? 

He continues to run. 

The Little Man spins round, rushes back, 

picks up baby and bundle on which it was 

seated. 

Little Man. Come along, good woman, come 

along ! 

The Woman picks up the other bundle and 

they run. 
The Waiter, appearing in the doorway with the 
bottle of beer, watches with his tired smile. 



curtain 



SCENE II 

A second-class compartment of a corridor carriage, in 
motion. In it are seated the Englishman and 
his Wife, opposite each other at the corridor end, 
she with her face to the engine, he with his back. 
Both are somewhat protected from the rest of the 
travellers by newspapers. Next to her sits the 
Gekman, and opposite him sits the American; 
next the American in one window comer is 
seated the Dutch Youth; the other window 
corner is taken by the Qerman's bag. The 
silence is only broken by the slight rushing noise 
of the train's progression and the crackling of the 
English newspapers. 

American. [Turning to the Dutch Youth] Guess 
I'd like that window raised; it's kind of chilly after 
that old run they gave us. 

The Dutch Youth laughs, and goes through 
the motions of raising the window. The 
English regard the operation with uneasy 
irritation. The German opens his bag, 
which reposes on the corner seat next him, 
and takes out a book. 
American. The Germans are great readers. 
Very stimulating practice. I read most anything 
myself ! 

67 



58 THE LITTLE MAN sen 

The German holds up the hook so that the 
title may be read. 
*'Don Quixote" — fine book. We Americans take 
considerable stock in old man Quixote. Bit of a 
wild-cat — but we don't laugh at him. 

German. He is dead. Dead as a sheep. A good 
thing, too. 

American. In America we have still quite an 
amount of chivalry. 

German. Chivalry is nothing — sentimentalisch. 
In modern days — ^no good. A man must push, he 
must pull. 

American. So you say. But I judge your form 
of chivalry is sacrifice to the state. We allow more 
freedom to the individual soul. Where there's 
something little and weak, we feel it kind of noble to 
give up to it. That way we feel elevated. 

As he speaks there is seen in the corridor 
doorway the Little Man, with the Woman's 
Baby still on his arm and the bundle held 
in the other hand. He peers in anxiously. 
The English, acutely conscious, try to 
dissociate themselves from his presence 
with their papers. The Dutch Youth 
laughs. 
German. Ach ! So ! 
American. Dear me ! 

Little Man. Is there room ? I can't find a seat. 
American. Why, yes ! There's a seat for one. 
Little Man. [Depositing bundle outside, and 
heaving Baby] May I ? 



sc. II THE LITTLE MAN 59 

American. Come right in ! 

The German sulkily moves his hag. The 
Little Man comes in and seats himself 
gingerly. 
American. Where's the mother ? 
Little Man. [Ruefully] Afraid she got left behind. 
The Dutch Youth laughs. The English 
unconsciously emerge from their news- 
papers. 
American. My ! That would appear to be quite 
a domestic incident. 

The Englishman suddenly utters a profound 
"Ha, Ha!'' and disappears behind his 
paper. And that paper and the one 
opposite are seen to shake, and little 
squirts and squeaks emerge. 
German. And you haf got her bundle, and her 
baby. Ha ! [He cackles drily.] 

American. [Gravely] I smile. I guess Providence 
has played it pretty low down on you. It's sure 
acted real mean. 

The Baby wails, and the Little Man jigs it 

with a sort of gentle desperation, looking 

apologetically from face to face. His 

wistful glance renews the fire of merriment 

wherever it alights. The American alone 

preserves a gravity which seems incapable 

of being broken. 

American. Maybe you'd better get off right smart 

and restore that baby. There's nothing can act 

madder than a mother. 



60 THE LITTLE MAN sen 

Little Man. Poor thing, yes ! What she must 
be suffering ! 

A gale of laughter shakes the carriage. The 
English for a moment drop their papers, 
the better to indulge. The Little Man 
smiles a wintry smile. 
American. [In a lull] How did it eventuate ? 
Little Man. We got there just as the train was 
going to start; and I jumped, thinking I could help 
her up. But it moved too quickly, and — and left 
her. 

The gale of laughter blows up again. 
American. Guess I'd have thrown the baby out 
to her. 

Little Man. I was afraid the poor little thing 
might break. 

The Baby wails; the Little Man heaves it; 
the gale of laughter blows. 
American. [Gravely] It's highly entertaining — not 
for the baby. What kind of an old baby is it, any- 
way ? [He sniffs] I judge it's a bit — niffy. 
Little Man. Afraid I've hardly looked at it yet. 
American. Which end up is it ? 
Little Man. Oh ! I think the right end. Yes, 
yes, it is. 

American. Well, that's something. Maybe you 
should hold it out of window a bit. Very excitable 
things, babies ! 
Englishwoman. [Galvanized] No, no ! 
Englishman. [Touching her knee] My dear ! 
American. You are right, ma'am. I opine there's 



sen THE LITTLE MAN 61 

a draught out there. This baby is precious. We've 
all of us got stock in this baby in a manner of speaking. 
This is a little bit of universal brotherhood. Is it a 
woman baby ? 

Little Man. I — I can only see the top of its 
head. 

American. You can't always tell from that. It 
looks kind of over-wrapped up. Maybe it had better 
be unbound. 

German. Nein, nein, nein ! 

American. I think you are very likely right, 
colonel. It might be a pity to unbind that baby. 
I guess the lady should be consulted in this matter. 

Englishwoman. Yes, yes, of course — I 

Englishman. [Touching her] Let it be ! Little 
beggar seems all right. 

American. That would seem only known to Prov- 
idence at this moment. I judge it might be due to 
humanity to look at its face. 

Little Man. [Gladly] It's sucking my finger. 
There, there — nice little thing — there ! 

American. I would surmise in your leisure 
moments you have created babies, sir ? 

Little Man. Oh ! no — indeed, no. 

American. Dear me ! — ^That is a loss. [Addressing 
himself to the carriage at large] I think we may esteem 
ourselves fortunate to have this little stranger right 
here with us. Demonstrates what a hold the little 
and weak have upon us nowadays. The colonel 
here — a man of blood and iron — there he sits quite 
ca'm next door to it. [He sniffs] Now, this baby 



62 THE LITTLE MAN sen 

is ruther chastening — that is a sign of grace, in the 
colonel — that is true heroism. 

Little Man. [Faintly] I — I can see its face a 
little now. 

All bend forward. 

American. What sort of a physiognomy has it, 
anyway ? 

Little Man. [SHU faintly] I don't see anything 
but — but spots. 

German. Oh ! Ha ! Pfui ! 

The Dutch Youth laughs. 

American. I am told that is not uncommon 
amongst babies. Perhaps we could have you inform 
us, ma'am. 

Englishwoman. Yes, of course — only — what sort 
of 

Little Man. They seem all over its — [At the slight 
recoil of everyone] I feel sure it's — it's quite a good 
baby underneath. 

American. That will be ruther difficult to come 
at. I'm just a bit sensitive. I've very little use for 
affections of the epidermis. 

German. Pfui ! [He has edged away as far as he 
can get, and is lighting a big cigar] 

The Dutch Youth draws his legs back. 

American. [Also taking out a cigar] I guess it 
would be well to fumigate this carriage. Does it 
suffer, do you think ? 

Little Man. [Peering] Really, I don't — I'm not 
sure — I know so little about babies. I think it would 
have a nice expression — if — if it showed. 



sc. II THE LITTLE MAN 63 

American. Is it kind of boiled looking ? 
Little Man. Yes — yes, it is. 
American. [Looking gravely round] I judge this 
baby has the measles. 

The German screws himself spasmodically 
against the arm of the Englishwoman's 
seat. 

Englishwoman. Poor little thing ! Shall I ? 

She half rises. 

Englishman. [Touching her] No, no — Dash it ! 

American. I honour your emotion, ma'am. It 

does credit to us all. But I sympathize with your 

husband too. The measles is a very important 

pestilence in connection with a grown woman. 

Little Man. It likes my finger awfully. Really, 
it's rather a sweet baby. 

American. [Sniffing] Well, that would appear 
to be quite a question. About them spots, now ? 
Are they rosy ? 

Little Man. No-o; they're dark, almost black. 
German. Gott ! Typhus ! [He bounds up on 
to the arm of the Englishwoman's seat.] 

American. Typhus ! That's quite an indisposi- 
tion ! 

The Dutch Youth rises suddenly, and bolts 
out into the corridor. He is followed by 
the German, puffing clouds of smoke. 
The English and American sit a moment 
longer without speaking. The English- 
woman's face is turned with a curious 
expression — half pity, half fear — towards 



64 THE LITTLE MAN sen 

the Little Man. Then the Englishman 
gets up. 
Englishman. Bit stuffy for you here, dear, isn't 

it? 

He puts his arm through hers, raises her, and 
, almost pushes her through the doorway. 
She goes, still looking hack. 
American. [Gravely] There's nothing I admire 

more'n courage. Guess I'll go and smoke in the 

corridor. 

As he goes out the Little Man looks very 
wistfully after him. Screwing up his mouth 
and nose, he holds the Baby away from him 
and wavers; then rising, he puts it on the 
seat opposite and goes through the motions 
of letting down the window. Having done 
so he looks at the Baby, who has begun 
to wail. Suddenly he raises his hands and 
clasps them, like a child praying. Since, 
however, the Baby does not stop wailing, 
he hovers over it in indecision; then, 
picking it up, sits down again to dandle 
it, with his face turned toward the open 
window. Finding that it still wails, he 
begins to sing to it in a cracked little voice. 
It is charmed at once. While he is singing, 
the American appears in the corridor' 
Letting down the passage window, he stands 
there in the doorway with the draught 
blowing his hair and the smoke of his 
cigar all about him. The Little Man 



sc. II THE LITTLE MAN 65 

stops singing and shifts the shawl higher 

to protect the Baby's head from the draught. 

American. [Gravely] This is the most subHme 

spectacle I have ever envisaged. There ought to 

be a record of this. 

The Little Man looks at him, wondering. 
You are typical, sir, of the sentiments of modern 
Christianity. You illustrate the deepest feelings in 
the heart of every man. 

The Little Man rises with the Baby and a 
movement of approach. 
Guess Fm wanted in the dining-car. 

He vanishes. 

The Little Man sits down again, hut hack to 

the engine, away from the draught, and looks 

out of the window, patiently fogging the 

Baby on his knee. 



CURTAIN 



SCENE III 

An arrival platform. The Little Man, with the Baby 
and the bundle, is standing disconsolate, while 
travellers pass and luggage is being carried by. 
A Station Official, accompanied by a Police- 
man, appears from a doorway, behind him. 

Official. [Considting telegram in his hand] Das ist 
der Herr. 

They advance to the Little Man. 

Official. Sie haben einen Buben gestohlen ? 

Little Man. I only speak English and American. 

Official. Dies ist nicht Ihr Bube ? 

He touches the Baby. 

Little Man. [Shaking his head] Take care — 
it's ill. 

The man does not understand, 
111— the baby 

Official. [Shaking his head] Verstehe nicht. Dis 
is nod your baby ? No ? 

Little Man. [Shaking his head violently] No, it 
is not. No. 

Official. [Tapping the telegram] Gut ! You are 
'rested. [He signs to the Policeman, who takes the 
Little Man's arm.] 

Little Man. Why ? I don't want the poor 
baby. 

66 



sc. Ill THE LITTLE MAN 67 

Official. [Lifting the bundle] Dies ist nicht Ihr 
Gepack — pag ? 
Little Man. No. 
Official. Gut. You are 'rested. 
Little Man. I only took it for the poor woman. 

I'm not a thief — I'm — I'm 

Official. [Shaking head] Verstehe nicht. 

The Little Man tries to tear his hair. The 
disturbed Baby wails. 
Little Man. [Dandling it as best he can] There, 
there — poor, poor ! 

Official. Halt still ! You are 'rested. It is all 
right. 
Little Man. Where is the mother ? 
Official. She comm by next drain. Das telegram 
say: Halt einen Herrn mit schwarzem Buben and 
schwarzem Gepack. 'Rest gentleman mit black 
baby und black — pag. 

The Little Man turns up his eyes to heaven. 
Official. Komm mit us. 

They take the Little Man toward the door 
from which they have come. A voice stops 
them. 
American. [Speaking from as far away as may be] 
Just a moment ! 

The Official stops; the Little Man also 
stops and sits down on a bench against the 
wall. The Policeman stands stolidly 
beside him. The American approaches 
a step or two, beckoning; the Official 
goes up to him. 



68 THE LITTLE MAN sc. in 

American. Guess you've got an angel from 
heaven there ! What's the gentleman in buttons for ? 

Official. Was ist das ? 

American. Is there anybody here that can under- 
stand American ? 

Official. Verstehe nicht. 

American. Well, just watch my gestures. I was 
saying [He points to the Little Man, then makes 
gestures of flying] you have an angel from heaven 
there. You have there a man in whom Gawd [He 
points upward] takes quite an amount of stock. 
You have no call to arrest him. [He makes the gesture 
of arrest] No, sir. Providence has acted pretty 
mean, loading off that baby on him. [He makes the 
motion of dandling] The little man has a heart of gold. 
[He points to his heart, and takes out a gold coin.] 

Official. [Thinking he is about to be bribed] Aber, 
das ist zu viel ! 

American. Now, don't rattle me ! [Pointing to 
the Little Man] Man [Pointing to his heart] Herz 
[Pointing to the coin] von Gold. This is a flower 
of the field — ^he don't want no gentleman in buttons 
to pluck him up. 

A little crowd is gathering, including the Two 
English, the German, and the Dutch 
Youth. 

Official. Verstehe absolut nichts. [He taps the 
telegram] Ich muss mein duty do. 

American. But I'm telling you. This is a white 
man. This is probably the whitest man on Gawd's 
earth. 



sc. Ill THE LITTLE MAN 69 

Official. Das macht nichts — gut or no gut, I 
muss mein duty do. [He turns to go toward the Little 
Man.] 

American. Oh ! Very well, arrest him ; do your 
duty. This baby has typhus. 

At the word "typhus" the Official stops, 

American. [Making gestures] First-class typhus, 

black typhus, schwarzen typhus. Now you have it. 

I'm kind o' sorry for you and the gentleman in 

buttons. Do your duty ! 

Official. Typhus ? Der Bub'— die baby hat 
typhus ? 
American. I'm telling you. 
Official. Gott im Himmel ! 

American. [Spotting the German in the little 
throng] Here's a gentleman will corroborate me. 

Official. [Much disturbed, and signing to the 
Policeman to stand clear] Typhus ! Aber das ist 
grasslich ! 
American. I kind o' thought you'd feel like that. 
Official. Die Sanitatsmachine ! Gleich ! 

A Porter goes to get it. From either side the 
broken half-moon of persons stand gazing 
at the Little Man, who sits unhappily 
dandling the Baby in the centre. 
Official. [Raising his hands] Was zu thun ? 
American. Guess you'd better isolate the baby. 
A silence, during which the Little Man is 
heard faintly whistling and clucking to the 
Baby. 
Official. [Referring once more to his telegram] 



70 THE LITTLE MAN sc. iii 

"'Rest gentleman mit black baby." [Shaking his 
head] Wir must de gentleman hold. [To the German] 
Bitte, mein Herr, sagen Sie ihm, den Buben zu 
niedersetzen. [He makes the gesture of deposit.] 

German. [To the Little Man] He say: Put down 
the baby. 

The Little Man shakes his head, and continues 
to dandle the Baby. 
Official. You must. 

The Little Man glowers, in silence. 
Englishman. [In background — muttering] Good 
man ! 
German. His spirit ever denies. 
Official. [Again making his gesture] Aber er 
muss ! 

The Little Man makes a face at him. 
Sag' Ihm: Instantly put down baby, and komm' 
mit us. 

The Baby wails. 
Little Man. Leave the poor ill baby here alone ? 

Be — be — be d d to you ! 

American. [Jumping on to a trunk — with en- 
thusiasm] Bully ! 

The English clap their hands; the Dutch 
Youth laughs. The Official is mutter- 
ing, greatly incensed. 
American. What does that body-snatcher say ? 
German. He say this man use the baby to save 
himself from arrest. Very smart — he say. 

American. I judge you do him an injustice. 
[Showing off the Little Man with a sweep of his arm.] 



sc. Ill THE LITTLE MAN 71 

This is a white man. He's got a black baby, and he 
won't leave it in the lurch. Guess we would all act 
noble, that way, give us the chance. 

The Little Man rises, holding out the Baby, 
and advances a step or two. The half- 
moon at once gives, increasing its size; 
the American climbs on to a higher trunk. 
The Little Man retires and again sits down. 
American. [Addressing the Official] Guess you'd 
better go out of business and wait for the mother. 

Official. [Stamping his foot] Die Mutter sail 
'rested be for taking out baby mit typhus. Ha ! 
[To the Little Man] Put ze baby down ! 

The Little Man smiles. 
Do you 'ear ? 

American. [Addressing the Official] Now, see 
here. 'Pears to me you don't suspicion just how 
beautiful this is. Here we have a man giving his 
life for that old baby that's got no claim on him. This 
is not a baby of his own making. No, sir, this is a 
very Christ-like proposition in the gentleman. 

Official. Put ze baby down, or ich will gommand 
someone it to do. 
American. That will be very interesting to watch. 
Official, [to Policeman] Dake it vrom him. 

The Policeman mutters, hut does not, 
American. [To the German] Guess I lost that. 
German. He say he is not his officier. 
American. That just tickles me to death. 
Official. [Looking round] Vill nobody dake ze 
Bub'? 



72 THE LITTLE MAN sc. iii 

Englishwoman. [Moving a step— faintly] Yes — 

I 

Englishman. [Grasping her arm]. By Jove ! Will 
you ! 

Official. [Gathering himself for a great effort to 
take the Baby, and advancing two steps] Zen I gom- 

mand you [He stops and his voice dies away] 

Zit dere ! 

American. My ! That's wonderful. What a man 
this is ! What a sublime sense of duty ! 

The Dutch Youth laughs. The Official 
turns on him, hut as he does so the Mother 
of the Baby is seen hurrying. 
Mother. Ach ! Ach ! Mei' Bubi ! 

Her face is illumined; she is about to rush to 
the Little Man. 
Official. [To the Policeman] Nimm die Frau ! 

The Policeman catches hold of the Woman. 
Official. [To the frightened Woman] Warum haben 
Sie einen Buben mit Typhus mit ausgebracht ? 

American. [Eagerly, from his perch] What was 
that ? I don't want to miss any. 

German. He say: Why did you a baby with 
typhus with you bring out ? 
American. Well, that's quite a question. 

He takes out the field-glasses slung around 
him and adjusts them on the Baby. 
Mother. [Bewildered] Mei' Bubi — Typhus — aber 
Typhus ? [She shakes her head violently] Nein, nein, 
nein ! Typhus ! 
Official. Er hat Typhus. 



sc. Ill THE LITTLE MAN 73 

Mother. [Shaking her head] Nein, nein, nein ! 
American. [Looking through his glasses] Guess 
she's kind of right I I judge the typhus is where the 
baby's slobbered on the shawl, and it's come off 
on him. 

The Dutch Youth laughs. 
Official. [Turning on him furiously] Er hat 
Typhus. 

American. Now, that's where you slop over. 
Come right here. 

The Official mounts, and looks through the 
glasses. 
American. [To the Little Man] Skin out the 
baby's leg. If we don't locate spots on that, it'll 
be good enough for me. 

The Little Man fumbles out the Baby's 
little white foot. 
Mother. Mei' Bubi ! [She tries to break away.] 
American. White as a banana. [To the Official 
— affably] Guess you've made kind of a fool of us 
with your old typhus. 
Official. Lass die Frau ! 

The Policeman lets her go, and she rushes to 
her Baby. 
Mother. Mei' Bubi ! 

The Baby, exchanging the warmth of the 
Little Man for the momentary chill of 
its Mother, wails. 
Official. [Descending and beckoning to the Police- 
man] Sie wollen den Herrn accusiren ? 

The Policeman takes the Little Man's arm. 



74 THE LITTLE MAN sc. iii 

American. What's that ? They goin' to pinch 
him after all ? 

The Mother, still hugging her Baby, who has 

stopped crying, gazes at the Little Man, 

who sits dazedly looking up. Suddenly 

she drops on her knees, and with her free 

hand lifts his booted foot and kisses it. 

American. [Waving his hat] Ra ! Ra ! [He 

descends swiftly, goes up to ths Little Man, whose 

arm the Policeman has dropped, and takes his hand] 

Brother, I am proud to know you. This is one of 

the greatest moments I have ever experienced. 

[Displaying the Little Man to the assembled company] 

I think I sense the situation when I say that we all 

esteem it an honour to breathe the rather inferior 

atmosphere of this station here along with our 

little friend. I guess we shall all go home and 

treasure the memory of his face as the whitest thing 

in our museum of recollections. And perhaps this 

good woman will also go home and wash the face of our 

little brother here. I am inspired with a new faith 

in mankind. Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to 

present to you a sure-enough saint — only wants a 

halo, to be transfigured. [To the Little Man] Stand 

right up. 

The Little Man stands up bewildered. 
They come about him. The Official 
bows to him, the Policeman salutes him. 
The Dutch Youth shakes his head and 
laughs. The German draws himself up 
very straight, and bows quickly twice. The 



sc.iii THE LITTLE MAN 75 

Englishman and his Wife approach at 
least two steps, then, thinking better of ity 
turn to each other and recede. The Mother 
kisses his hand. The Porter returning 
with the Sanitatsmachine, turns it on from 
behind, and its pinkish shower, goldened 
by a ray of sunlight, falls around the Little 
Man's head, transfiguring it as he stands 
with eyes upraised to see whence the portent 
comes. 
American. [Rushing forward and dropping on his 
knees] Hold on just a minute ! Guess FU take a 
snapshot of the miracle. [He adjusts his pocket 
camera] This ought to look bully ! 



curtain 



HALI^MARKED 

A SATIRIC TRIFLE 



CHARACTERS 

Herself. The Doctor. 

Lady Ella. The Cabman. 

The Squire. The Maid. 

Maud. Hannibal and 

The Rector. Edward. 



HALL-MARKED 

The scene is the sitting-room and verandah of Her 
bungalow. 

The room is pleasant, and along the back, where the 
verandah runs, it seems all window, both French 
and casement. There is a door right and a door 
left. The day is bright ; the time morning. 

[Herself, dripping wet, comes running along the 
verandah, through the French window, with a 
wet Scotch terrier in her arms. She vanishes 
through the door left. A little pause, and Lady 
Ella comes running, dry, thin, refined, and 
agitated. She halts where the tracks of water 
cease at the door left. A little pause, and Maud 
conies running, fairly dry, stolid, breathless, and 
dragging a bull-dog, wet, breathless, and stout, by 
the crutch end of her en-tout-cas]. 

Lady Ella. Don't bring Hannibal in till I know 
where she's put Edward ! 
Maud. [Brutally, to Hannibal] Bad dog ! Bad dog ! 

Hannibal snuffles. 

Lady Ella. Maud, do take him out ! Tie him 

up. Here ! [She takes out a lace handkerchief] No — 

something stronger ! Poor darling Edward ! [To 

Hannibal] You are a bad dog \ 

Hannibal snuffles. 

79 



80 HALL-MARKED 

Maud. Edward began it, Ella. [To Hannibal] 
Bad dog ! Bad dog ! 

Hannibal snuffles. 
Lady Ella. Tie him up outside. Here, take 
my scarf. Where is my poor treasure ? [She removes 
her scarf] Catch ! His ear's torn ; I saw it. 
Maud. [Taking the scarf, to Hannibal] Now ! 

Hannibal snuffles. 
[She ties the scarf to his collar] He smells horrible. 
Bad dog — getting into ponds to fight ! 
Lady Ella. Tie him up, Maud. I must try in here. 
Their husbands, The Squire and The Rector, 
come hastening along the verandah. 
Maud. [To The Rector] Smell him, Bertie ! 
[To The Squire] You might have that pond drained, 
Squire ! 

She takes Hannibal out, and ties him to the 
verandah. The Squire and Rector come 
in. Lady Ella is knocking on the door left. 
Her Voice. All right ! I've bound him up ! 
Lady Ella. May I come in ? 
Her Voice. Just a second ! I've got nothing on. 
Lady Ella recoils. The Squire and 
Rector make an involuntary movement of 
approach. 
Lady Ella. Oh ! There you are ! 
The Rector. [Doubtfully] I was just going to 

wade in 

Lady Ella. Hannibal would have killed him, if 
she hadn't rushed in ! 
The Squire. Done him good, little beast I 



HALL-MARKED 81 

Ladt Ella. Why didn't you go in, Tommy ? 

The Squire. Well, I would — only she 

Lady Ella. I can't think how she got Edward 
out of Hannibal's awful mouth ! 

Maud. \Without — to Hannibal, who is snuffling 
on the verandah and straining at the scarf] Bad dog ! 

Lady Ella. We must simply thank her tremen- 
dously ! I shall never forget the way she ran in, 
with her skirts up to her waist ! 

The Squire. By Jove ! No. It was topping. 

Lady Ella. Her clothes must be ruined. That 
pond — ugh! [She wrinkles her nose] Tommy, do 
have it drained. 

The Rector. [Dreamily] I don't remember her 
face in church. 

The Squire. Ah ! Yes. Who is she ? Pretty 
woman ! 

Lady Ella. I must get the Vet. to Edward. [To 
The Squire] Tommy, do exert yourself ! 

Maud re-enters. 

The Squire. All right ! [Exerting himself] Here's 
a bell ! 

Her Voice. [Through the door] The bleeding's 
stopped. 

They listen. 
Shall I send him in to you ? 

Lady Ella. Oh, please ! Poor darling ! 

Lady Ella prepares to receive Edward. 
The Squire and Rector stand transfixed. 
The door opens, and a bare arm gently 
pushes Edward forth. He is bandaged 



82 HALL-MARKED 

with a smooth towel. There is a snuffle — 
Hannibal has broken the scarf, outside. 
Lady Ella. [Aghast] Look ! HannibaFs loose ! 
Maud — ^Tommy. [To The Rector] You ! 

The Three rush to prevent Hannibal from 
re-entering. 
Lady Ella. [To Edward] Yes, I know — you'd 
like to ! You shall bite him when it's safe. Oh ! 
my darling, you do — [She sniffs]. 

Maud and The Squire re-enter. 
Have you tied him properly this time ? 
Maud. With Bertie's braces. 

Lady Ella. Oh ! but 

Maud. It's all right ; they're almost leather. 

The Rector re-enters, with a slight look of 
insecurity. 
Lady Ella. Rector, are you sure it's safe ? 
The Rector. [Hitching at his trousers] No, indeed, 

Lady Ella— I 

Lady Ella. Tommy, do lend a hand ! 
The Squire. All right, Ella ; all right ! He 
doesn't mean what you mean ! 

Lady Ella. [Transferring Edward to The Squire] 
Hold him, Tommy. He's sure to smell out 
Hannibal ! 

The Squire. [Taking Edward by the collar, and 
holding his own nose] Jove ! Clever if he can smell 
anything but himself. Phew ! She ought to have 
the Victoria Cross for goin' in that pond. 

The door opens, and Herself appears; a 
fine, frank, handsome woman, in a man's 



HALL-MARKED 83 

orange-coloured motor-coat, hastily thrown 
on over the substrata of costume. 
She. So very sorry — had to have a bath, and 
change, of course ! 

Lady Ella. We're so awfully grateful to you. 
It was splendid. 
Maud. Quite. 
The Rector. [Rather holding himself together] 

Heroic ! I was just myself about to 

The Squire. [Restraining Edward] Little beast 
will fight — must apologise — ^you were too quick 

for me 

He looks up at her. She is smiling, and 
regarding the wounded dog, her head 
benevolently on one side. 
She. Poor dears ! They thought they were so safe 
in that nice pond ! 
Lady Elj.a. Is he very badly torn ? 
She. Rather nasty. There ought to be a stitch 
or two put in his ear. 

Lady Ella. I thought so. Tommy, do 

The Squire. All right. Am I to let him go ? 
Lady Ella. No. 

Maud. The fly's outside. Bertie, run and tell 
Jarvis to drive in for the Vet. 
The Rector. [Gentle and embarrassed] Run ? 

Well, Maud— I 

She. The doctor would sew it up. My maid can 
go round. 

Hannibal appears at the open casement with 
the broken braces dangling from his collar. 



84 HALL-MARKED 

Lady Ella. Look ! Catch him ! Rector ! 

Maud. Bertie ! Catch him ! 

The Rector seizes Hannibal, but is seen 
to be in difficulties with his garments. 
Herself, loho has gone out left, returns, 
with a leather strop in one hand and a pair 
of braces in the other. 

She. Take this strop — ^he can't break that. And 
would these be any good to you ? 

She hands the braces to Maud and goes out 
on to the verandah and hastily away. 
Maud, transferring the braces to the 
Rector, goes out, draws Hannibal from 
the casement window, and secures him with 
the strop. The Rector sits suddenly 
with the braces in his hands. There is 
a moment's peace. 

Lady Ella. Splendid, isn't she ? I do admire her. 

The Squire. She's all there. 

The Rector. [Feelingly] Most kind. 

He looks ruefully at the braces and at Lady 
Ella. A silence. Maud reappears at 
the door and stands gazing at the braces. 

The Squire. [Suddenly] Eh ? 

Maud. Yes. 

The Squire. [Looking at his vrife] Ah ! 

Lady Ella. [Absorbed in Edward] Poor darling ! 

The Squire. [Bluntly] Ella, the Rector wants to 
get up ! 

The Rector. [Gently] Perhaps — just for a 
moment 



HALL-MARKED 85 

Lady Ella. Oh ! [She turns to the wall] 

The Rector, screened by his Wife, retires 
on to the verandah to adjust his garments. 
The Squire. [Meditating] So she's married ! 
Lady Ella. [Absorbed in Edward] Why ? 
The Squire. Braces. 

Lady Ella. Oh ! Yes. We ought to ask them 

to dinner, Tommy. 

The Squire. Ah ! Yes. Wonder who they are ? 

The Rector and Maud reappear. 

The Rector. Really very good of her to lend her 

husband's I was — er — quite 

Maud. That'll do, Bertie. 

They see Her returning along the verandah, 
followed by a sandy, red-faced gentleman 
in leather leggings, with a needle and cotton 
in his hand. 
Herself. Caught the doctor just starting., So 
lucky ! 
Lady Ella. Oh ! Thank goodness ! 
Doctor. How do. Lady Ella ? How do, Squire ? 
—how do. Rector? [To Maud] How de do? This 
the beastie ? I see. Quite ! Who'll hold him for 
me? 

Lady Ella. Oh ! I ! 

Herself. D'you know, I think I'd better. It's 
so dreadful when it's your own, isn't it ? Shall we 
go in here, doctor ? Come along, pretty boy ! 

She takes Edward, and they pass into the 
room, left. 
Lady Ella. I dreaded it. She is splendid ! 



86 HALL-MARKED 

The Squire. Dogs take to her. That's a sure 
sign. 

The Rector. Little things — one can always tell. 

The Squire. Something very attractive about her 
— what ! Fine build of woman. 

Maud. I shall get hold of her for parish work. 

The Rector. Ah ! Excellent — excellent ! Do ! 

The Squire. Wonder if her husband shoots ? 
She seems quite — er — quite 

Lady Ella. [Watching the door] Quite ! Altogether 
charming ; one of the nicest faces I ever saw. 

The Doctor comes out alone. 
Oh ! Doctor — ^have you ? — is it ? 

Doctor. Right as rain ! She held him like an 
angel — he just licked her, and never made a 
sound. 

Lady Ella. Poor darling ! Can I 

She signs toward the door. 

Doctor. Better leave 'em a minute. She's 
moppin' 'im off. [He wrinkles his nose] Wonderful 
clever hands ! 

The Squire. I say — who is she ? 

Doctor. [Looking from face to face with a dubious 
and rather quizzical expression] Who ? Well — there 
you have me ! All I know is she's a first-rate nurse 
— been helpin' me with a case in Ditch Lane. Nice 
woman, too — thorough good sort ! Quite an acquisi- 
tion here. H'm ! [Again that quizzical glance] 
Excuse me hurryin' off — very late. Good-bye, 
Rector. Good-bye, Lady Ella. Good-bye ! 

He goes. A silence. 



HALL-MARKED 87 

The Squire. H'm ! I suppose we ought to be a 
bit careful. 

Jarvis, flyman of the old school, has appeared 
on the verandah. 

Jarvis. [To The Rector] Beg pardon, sir. Is 
the little dog all right ? 

Maud. Yes. 

Jarvis. [Touching his hat] Seein' you've missed your 
train, m'm, shall I wait, and take j^ou 'ome again ? 

Maud. No. 

Jarvis. Cert'nly, m'm. [He touches his hat with a 
circular gesture, and is about to withdraw.] 

Lady Ella. Oh, Jarvis — ^what's the name of the 
people here ? 

Jarvis. Challenger's the name I've driven 'em in, 
my lady. 

The Squire. Challenger ? Sounds like a hound. 
What's he like ? 

Jarvis. [Scratching his head] Wears a soft 'at, sir. 

The Squire. H'm ! Ah ! 

Jarvis. Very nice gentleman, very nice lady. 
'Elped me with my old mare when she 'ad the 
'ighsteria last week — couldn't 'a' been kinder if 
they'd 'a' been angels from 'eaven. Wonderful fond 
o' dumb animals, the two of 'em. I don't pay no 
attention to gossip, meself. 

Maud. Gossip ? WTiat gossip ? 
' Jarvis. [Backing] Did I make use of the word, 
m'm ? You'll excuse me, I'm sure. There's always 
talk where there's newcomers. I takes people as I 
finds 'em. 



88 HALL-MARKED 

The Rector. Yes, yes, Jarvis — quite — quite right ! 

Jarvis. Yes, sir. I've — I've got a 'abit that way 
at my time o' Hfe. 

Maud. [Sharply] How long have they been here, 
Jarvis ? 

Jarvis. Well — er — a matter of three weeks, m'm. 

A slight involuntary stir. 
[Apologetic] Of course, in my profession I can't 
afford to take notice of whether there's the trifle 
of a ring between 'em, as the sayin' is. 'Tisn't 
'ardly my business like. 

A silence. 

Lady Ella. [Suddenly] Er — thank you, Jarvis; 
you needn't wait. 

Jarvis. No, m'lady. Your service, sir — service, 
m'm. 

He goes. A silence. 

The Squire. [Drawing a little closer] Three weeks ? 
I say — er — wasn't there a book ? 

The Rector. [Abstracted] Three weeks I 

certainly haven't seen them in church. 

Maud. A trifle of a ring ! 

Lady Ella. [Impulsively] Oh, bother ! I'm sure 
she's all right. And if she isn't, I don't care. She's 
been much too splendid. 

The Squire. Must think of the village. Didn't 
quite like the doctor's way of puttin' us off. 

Lady Ella. The poor darling owes his life to her. 

The Squire. H'm ! Dash it ! Yes ! Can't forget 
the way she ran into that stinkin' pond. 

Maud. Had she a wedding-ring on ? 



HALL-MARKED 89 

They look at each other, but no one knows. 

Lady Ella. Well, I'm not going to be ungrateful. 

The Squire. It'd be dashed awkward— mustn't 
take a false step, Ella. 

The Rector. And I've got his braces ! [He puts 
his hand to his waist] 

Maud. [Warningly] Bertie ! 

The Squire. That's all right. Rector— we're goin' 
to be perfectly polite, and— and— thank her, and 
all that. 

Lady Ella. We can see she's a good sort. What 
does it matter ? 

Maud. My dear Ella ! "What does it matter !" 
We've got to know. 

The Rector. We do want light. 

The Squire. I'll ring the bell. [He rings.] 

They look at each other aghast. 

Lady Ella. What did you ring for, Tommy ? 

The Squire. [Flabbergasted] God knows ! 

Maud. Somebody '11 come. 

The Squire. Rector— you— you've got to 

Maud. Yes, Bertie. 

The Rector. Dear me ! But— er— what— er— 
How? 

The Squire. [Deeply — to himself] The whole 
thing's damn delicate. 

The door right is opened and a Maid appears. 
She is a determined-looking female. They 
face her in silence. 

The Rector. Er — er — your master is not in ? 

The Maid. No. 'E's gone up to London. 



90 HALL-MARKED 

The Rector. Er — Mr Challenger, I think ? 

The Maid. Yes. 

The Rector. Yes ! Er — quite so ! 

The Maid. [Eyeing them] D'you want — Mrs 
Challenger ? 

The Rector. Ah ! Not precisely 

The Squire. [To him in a low, determined voice] 
Go on. 

The Rector. [Desperately] I asked because there 
was a — a — Mr Challenger I used to know in the 
'nineties, and I thought — you wouldn't happen to 
know how long they've been married ? My friend 
marr 

The Maid. Three weeks. 

The Rector. Quite so — quite so ! I shall hope 
it will turn out to be Er — thank you — Ha I 

Lady Ella. Our dog has been fighting with the 
Rector's, and Mrs Challenger rescued him; she's 
bathing his ear. We're waiting to thank her. You 
needn't 

The Maid. [Eyeing them] No. 

She turns and goes out. 

The Squire. Phew ! What a gorgon ! I say, 
Rector, did you really know a Challenger in the 
'nineties ? 

The Rector. [Wiping his brow] No. 

The Squire. Ha ! Jolly good ! 

Lady Ella. Well, you see ! — it's all right. 

The Rector. Yes, indeed. A great relief ! 

Lady Ella. [Moving to the door] I must go in 
now. 



HALL-MARKED 91 

The Squire. Hold on ! You goin' to ask 'em 
to — to — anything ? 

Lady Ella. Yes. 

Maud. I shouldn't. 

Lady Ella. Why not ? We all like the look of 
her. 

The Rector. I think we should punish ourselves 
for entertaining that uncharitable thought. 

Lady Ella. Yes. It's horrible not having the 
courage to take people as they are. 

The Squire. As they are ? H'm ! How can 
you till you know ? 

Lady Ella. Trust our instincts, of course. 

The Squire. And supposing she'd turned out not 
married — eh ! 

Lady Ella ! She'd still be herself^ wouldn't she ? 

Maud. Ella ! 

The Squire. H'm ! Don't know about that. 

Lady Ella. Of course she would, Tommy. 

The Rector. [His hand stealing to his waist] 
Well ! It's a great weight off my ! 

Lady Ella. There's the poor darling snuffling. 
I must go in. 

She knocks on the door. It is opened, and 
Edward comes out briskly, with a neat 
little white pointed ear-cap on one ear. 

Lady Ella. Precious ! 

She Herself comes out, now properly dressed 
in flax-hlu^ linen. 

Lady Ella. How perfectly sweet of you to make 
him that ! 



92 HALL-MARKED 

She. He's such a dear. And the other poor dog? 
Maud. Quite safe, thanks to your strop. 

Hannibal appears at the window, with the 
broken strop dangling. Following her gaze, 
they turn and see him. 
Maud. Oh ! There, he's broken it. Bertie ! 
She. Let me ! [She seizes Hannibal.] 
The Squire. We're really most tremendously 
obliged to you. Afraid we've been an awful 
nuisance. 
She. Not a bit. I love dogs. 
The Squire. Hope to make the acquaintance of 

Mr of your husband. 

Lady Ella. [To Edward, who is straining] 
Gently, darling ! Tommy, take him. 

The Squire does so. 

Maud. [Approaching Hannibal.] Is he behaving? 

She stops short, and her face suddenly shoots 

forward at Her hands that are holding 

Hannibal's neck. 

She. Oh ! yes — he's a love. 

Maud. [Regaining her upright position, and pursing 
her lips; in a peculiar voice] Bertie, take Hannibal. 

The Rector takes him. 

Lady Ella. [Producing a card] I can't be too 

grateful for all you've done for my poor darling. 

This is where we live. Do come — and see 

Maud, whose eyes have never left those hands, 
tweaks Lady Ella's dress. 

Lady Ella. That is — I'm — I 

Herself looks at Lady Ella in surprise. 



HALL-MARKED 93 

The Squire. I don't know if your husband shoots, 

but if 

Maud, catching his eye, taps the third finger 
of her left hand. 

— er — he — does — er — er 

Herself looks at The Squire surprised. 
Maud. [Turning to her husband, repeats the gesture 
with the low and simple word] Look ! 

The Rector. [With round eyes, severely] Han- 
nibal ! [He lifts him bodily and carries him away.] 
Maud. Don't squeeze him, Bertie ! 

She follows through the French window. 
The Squire. [Abruptly — of the unoffending 
Edward] That dog'll be forgettin' himself in a 
minute. 

He picks up Edward and takes him out. 
Lady Ella is left staring. 

Lady Ella. [At last] You mustn't think, I 

You mustn't think, we Oh ! I mu^t just see they 

don't let Edward get at Hannibal. 

She skims away. 
Herself is left staring after Lady Ella, in 
surprise. 
She. What is the matter with them ? 

The door is opened. 
The Maid. [Entering and holding out a wedding- 
ring — severely] You left this, m'm, in the bath- 
room. 

She. [Looking, startled, at her finger] Oh ! [Taking 
it] I hadn't missed it. Thank you, Martha. 

The Maid goes. 



94 HALL-MARKED 

A hand, slipping in at tJie casement window, 
softly lays a pair of braces on the window- 
sill. She looks at the braces, then at the 
ring. Her lip curls. 
She. [Murmuring deeply] Ah ! 



CURTAIN 



DEFEAT 

A TINY DRAMA 



CHARACTERS 

The Officer. 
The Girl. 



DEFEAT 

During the Great War. Evening. 

An empty room. The curtains drawn and gas turned 
low. The furniture and walls give a colour- 
impression as of greens and beetroot. There is 
a prevalence of plush. A fireplace on the Left, 
a sofa, a small table; the curtained window is 
at the back. On the table, in a common pot, 
stands a little plant of maidenhair fern, fresh 
and green. 

Enter from the door on the Right, a Girl and a Young 
Officer in khaki. The Girl wears a discreet 
dark dress, hat, and veil, and stained yellow gloves. 
The Young Officer is tall, with a fresh open 
face, and kindly eager blue eyes; he is a little 
lame. The Girl, who is evidently at homej 
moves towards the gas jet to turn it up, then changes 
her mind, and going to the curtains, draws them 
apart and throws up the window. Bright moon- 
light comes flooding in. Outside are seen the 
trees of a little Square. She stands gazing out, 
suddenly turns inward with a shiver. 

Young Off. I say ; what's the matter ? You 
were crying when I spoke to you. 

Girl. [With a movement of recovery] Oh ! nothing. 
The beautiful evening — that's all. 

97 



98 DEFEAT 

Young Off. [Looking at her] Cheer up ! 

Girl. [Taking off hat and veil ; her hair is yellowish 
and crinkly] Cheer up ! You are not lonelee, hke 
me. 

Young Off. [Limping to the window — doubtfully] 
I say, how did you — how did you get into this ? 
Isn't it an awfully hopeless sort of life ? 

Girl. Yees, it ees. You haf been wounded ? 

Young Off. Just out of hospital to-day. 

Girl. The horrible war — all the misery is because 
of the war. When will it end ? 

Young Off. [Leaning against the window-sill, 
looking at her attentively] I say, what nationality 
are you ? 

Girl. [With a quick look and away] Rooshian. 

Young Off. Really ! I never met a Russian 
girl. [The Girl gives him another quick look] I say, 
is it as bad as they make out ? 

Girl. [Slipping her hand through his arm] Not 
when I haf anyone as ni-ice as you ; I never haf had, 
though. [She smiles, and her smile, like her speech, is 
slow and confiding] You stopped because I^,was sad, 
others stop because I am gay. I am not fond of men 
at all. When j^ou know — you are not fond of them. 

Young Off. Well, you hardly know them at their 
best, do you ? You should see them in the trenches. 
By George ! They're simply splendid — officers and 
men, every blessed soul. There's never been any- 
thing like it — just one long bit of jolly fine self- 
sacrifice; it's perfectly amazing. 

Girl. [Turning her blue-grey eyes on him] I expect 



DEFEAT 99 

you are not the last at that. You see in them what 
you haf in yourself, I think. 

Young Off. Oh, not a bit ; you're quite out ! 
I assure you when we made the attack where I got 
wounded there wasn't a single man in my regiment 
who wasn't an absolute hero. The way they went 
in — never thinking of themselves — it was simply 
rippmg. 

Girl. [In a queer voice] It is the same too, perhaps, 
with — the enemy. 

Young Off. Oh, yes ! I know that. 

Girl. Ah ! You are not a mean man. How 
I hate mean men ! 

Young Off. Oh ! they're not mean really — they 
simply don't understand. 

Girl. Oh ! You are a babee — a good babee — 
aren't you ? 

The Young Officer doesnH like this, and 
frowns. The Girl looks a little scared. 

Girl. [Clingingly] But I li-ke you for it. It is 
so good to find a ni-ice man. 

Young Off. [Abruptly] About being lonely ? 
Haven't you any Russian friends ? 

Girl. [Blankly] Rooshian ? No. [Quickly] The 
town is so beeg. Were you at the concert before 
you spoke to me ? 

Young Off. Yes. 

Girl. I too. I lofe music. 

Young Off. I suppose all Russians do. 

Girl. [With another quick look at him] I go there 
always when I haf the money. 



100 DEFEAT 

Young Off. What ! Are you as badly on the 
rocks as that ? 

Girl. Well, I haf just one shilling now. 

She laughs bitterly. The laugh upsets him; 
he sits on the windoiu-sill, and leans forward 
towards her. 

Young Off. I say, what's your name ? 

Girl. May. Well, I call myself that. It is no 
good asking yours. 

Young Off. [With a laugh] You're a distrustful 
little soul, aren't you ? 

Girl. I haf reason to be, don't you think ? 

Young Off. Yes. I suppose you're bound to 
think us all brutes. 

Girl. [Sitting on a chair close to the window where 
the moonlight falls on one powdered cheek] Well, I haf 
a lot of reasons to be afraid all my time. I am 
dreadfully nervous now ; I am not trusding anybody. 
I suppose you haf been killing lots of Germans ? 

Young Off. We never know, unless it happens 
to be hand to hand ; I haven't come in for that yet. 

Girl. But you would be very glad if you had 
killed some. 

Young Off. Oh, glad ? I don't think so. We're all 
in the same boat, so far as that's concerned. We're 
not glad to kill each other — not most of us. We 
do our job — that's all. 

Girl. Oh ! It is frightful. I expect I haf my 
brothers killed. 

Young Off. Don't you get any news ever ? 

Girl, News ? No indeed, no news of anybody 



DEFEAT 101 

in my country. I might not haf a country; all 
that I ever knew is gone; fader, moder, sisters, 
broders, all; never any more I shall see them, I 
suppose, now. The war it breaks and breaks, it 
breaks hearts. [She gives a little snarl] Do you know 
what I was thinking when you came up to me? I 
was thinking of my native town, and the river in 
the moonlight. If I could see it again I would be 
glad. Were you ever homeseeck ? 

Young Off. Yes, I have been — in the trenches. 
But one's ashamed — with all the others. 

Girl. Ah ! Yees ! Yees ! You are all comrades 
there. What is it like for me here, do you think, 
where everybody hates and despises me, and would 
catch me and put me in prison, perhaps. [Her breast 
heaves.] 

Young Off. [Leaning forward and patting her knee] 
Sorry — sorry. 

Girl. [In a smothered voice] You are the first 
who has been kind to me for so long ! I will tell you 
the truth — I am not Rooshian at all — I am German. 

Young Off. [Staring] My dear girl, who cares ? 
We aren't fighting against women. 

Girl. [Peering at him] Another man said that to 
me. But he was thinkin' of his fun. You are a 
veree ni-ice boy; I am so glad I met you. You see 
the good in people, don't you ? That is the first 
thing in the world — because — there is really not 
much good in people, you know. 

Young Off. [Smiling] You are a dreadful little 
cjTiic ! But of course you are ! 



102 DEFEAT 

Girl. Cyneec ? How long do you think I would 
live if I was not a cyneec ? I should drown myself 
to-morrow. Perhaps there are good people, but, 
you see, I don't know them. 

Young Off. I know lots. 

Girl. [Leaning towards him] Well now — see, 
ni-ice boy — you haf never been in a hole, haf you ? 

Young Off. I suppose not a real hole. 

Girl. No, I should think not, with your face. 
Well, suppose I am still a good girl, as I was once, 
you know; and you took me to your mother and 
your sisters and you said: "Here is a little German 
girl that has no work, and no money, and no friends.'' 
They will say: "Oh ! how sad ! A German girl !" 
And they will go and wash their hands. 

The Officer is silent, staring at her. 

Girl. You see. 

Young Off. [Muttering] I'm sure there are people. 

Girl. No. They would not take a German, even 
if she was good. Besides, I don't want to be good 
any more — I am not a humbug; I have learned to 
be bad. Aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy ? 

She puts her face close to his. Her eyes 
trouble him; he draws back. 

Young Off. Don't. I'd rather not, if you don't 
mind. [She looks at him fixedly, with a curious in- 
quiring stare] It's stupid. I don't know — but you 
see, out there, and in hospital, life's different. It's 
— it's — it isn't mean, you know. Don't come too 
close. 

Girl. Oh ! You are fun — [She stops] Eesn't it 



DEFEAT 103 

light ? No Zeps to-night. When they burn — what 
a orrible death ! And all the people cheer. It is 
natural. Do you hate us veree much ? 

Young Off. [Turning sharply] Hate ? I don't 
know. 

Girl. I don't hate even the English — I despise 
them. I despise my people too; even more, because 
they began this war. Oh ! I know that. I despise 
all the peoples. Why haf they made the world so 
miserable — why haf they killed all our lives — 
hundreds and thousands and millions of lives — all 
for noting ? They haf made a bad world — everybody 
hating, and looking for the worst everywhere. They 
haf made me bad, I know. I believe no more in 
anything. What is there to believe in ? Is there 
a God ? No ! Once I was teaching little English 
children their prayers — isn't that funnee ? I was 
reading to them about Christ and love. I believed 
all those things. Now I believe noting at all — no 
one who is not a fool or a liar can believe. I would 
like to work in a 'ospital; I would like to go and 
'elp poor boys like you. Because I am a German 
they would throw me out a 'undred times, even if 
I was good. It is the same in Germany, in France, 
in Russia, everjrwhere. But do you think I will 
believe in Love and Christ and God and all that — 
Not I ! I think we are animals — that's all ! Oh, 
yes ! you fancy it is because my life has spoiled me. 
It is not that at all — that is not the worst thing in 
life. The men I take are not ni-ice, like you, but 
it's their nature; and — they help me to live, which 



104 DEFEAT 

is something for me, anyway. No, it is the men who 
think themselves great and good and make the war 
with their talk and their hate, killing us all — killing 
all the boys like you, and keeping poor people in 
prison, and telling us to go on hating; and all these 
dreadful cold-blood creatures who write in the 
papers — the same in my country — just the same; 
it is because of all of them that I think we are only 
animals. 

The Young Officer gets up, acutely miserable. 

She follows him with her eyes. 
Girl. Don't mind me talkin', ni-ice boy. I 
don't know anyone to talk to. If you don't like it, 
I can be quiet as a mouse. 

Young Off. Oh, go on ! Talk away ; I'm not 
obliged to beUeve you, and I don't. 

She, too, is on her feet now, leaning against 

the wall; her dark dress and white face 

just touched by the slanting moonlight. 

Her voice comes again, sloio and soft and 

bitter. 
Girl. Well, look here, ni-ice boy, what sort of 
world is it, where millions are being tortured, for 
no fault of theirs, at all ? A beautiful world, isn't 
it ? 'Umbog ! Silly rot, as you boys call it. You 
say it is all ''Comrades" and braveness out there 
at the front, and people don't think of themselves. 
Well, I don't think of myself veree much. What 
does it matter ? I am lost now, anyway. But I 
think of my people at 'ome; how they suffer and 
grieve. I think of all the poor people there, and 



DEFEAT 105 

here, who lose those they love, and all the poor 
prisoners. Am I not to think of them ? And if I 
do, how am I to believe it a beautiful world, ni-ice 
boy? 

He stands very still, staring at her. 

Girl. Look here ! We haf one life each, and 
soon it is over. Well, I think that is lucky. 

Young Off. No ! There's more than that. 

Girl. [Softly] Ah ! You think the war is fought 
for the future ; you are giving your lives for a better 
world, aren't you ? 

Young Off. We must fight till we win. 

Girl. Till you win. My people think that too. 
All the peoples think that if they win the world will 
be better. But it will not, you know; it will be 
much worse, anyway. 

He turns away from her, and catches up his 
cap. Her voice follows him. 

Girl. I don't care which win. I don't care if 
my country is beaten. I despise them all — animals 
■ — animals. Ah ! Don't go, ni-ice boy; I will be 
quiet now. 

He has taken some notes from his tunic pocket ; 
he puts them on the table and goes up to her. 

Young Off. Good-night. 

Girl. [Plaintively] . Phq you really going? Don't 
you like me enough ? 

Young Off. Yes, I like you. 

Girl. It is because I am German, then ? 

Young Off. No. 

Girl. Then why won't you stay ? 



106 DEFEAT 

Young Off. [With a shrug] If you must know— 
because you upset me. 

Girl. Won't you kees me once ? 

He bends, puts his lips to her forehead. Bui 
as he takes them away she throws her head 
back, presses her mouth to his, and clings 
to him. 

Young Off. [Sitting down suddenly] Don't ! I 
don't want to feel a brute. 

Girl. [Laughing] You are a funny boy; but you 
are veree good. Talk to me a little, then. No one 
talks to me. Tell me, haf you seen many German 
prisoners ? 

Young Off. [Sighing] A good many. 

Girl. Any from the Rhine ? 

Young Off. Yes, I think so. 

Girl. Were they veree sad ? 

Young Off. Some were; some were quite glad 
to be taken. 

Girl. Did you ever see the Rhine ? It will be 
wonderful to-night. The moonlight will be the 
same there, and in Rooshia too, and France, every- 
where; and the trees will look the same as here, 
and people will meet under them and make love 
just as here. Oh ! isn't it stupid, the war ? As if 
it were not good to be alive ! 

Young Off. You can't tell how good it is to be 
alive till you're facing death. You don't live till 
then. And when a whole lot of you feel like that — 
and are ready to give their lives for each other, 
it's worth all the rest of life put together. 



DEFEAT 107 

He stops, ashamed of such sentiment before 
this girl, who believes in nothing. 

Girl. [Softly] How were you wounded, ni-ice 
boy? 

Young Off. Attacking across open ground: four 
machine bullets got me at one go off. 

Girl. Weren't you veree frightened when they 
ordered you to attack ? 

He shakes his head and laughs. 

Young Off. It was great. We did laugh that 
morning. They got me much too soon, though — a 
swindle. 

Girl. [Staring at him] You laughed ? 

Young Off. Yes. And what do you think was 

the first thing I was conscious of next morning ? 

My old Colonel bending over me and giving me 

a squeeze of lemon. If you knew my Colonel you'd 

still believe in things. There is something, you 

know, behind all this evil. After all, you can only 

die once, and, if it's for your country — all the better ! 

Her face, in the moonlight, with intent eyes 

touched up with black, has a most strange, 

other-world look. 

Girl. No; I believe in nothing, not even in my 
country. My heart is dead. 

Young Off. Yes; you think so, but it isn't, 
you know, or you wouldn't have been crying when 
I met you. 

Girl. If it were not dead, do you think I could 
live my life — walking the streets every night, pre- 
tending to like strange men; never hearing a kind 



108 DEFEAT 

word; never talking, for fear I will be known for 
a German ? Soon I shall take to drinking ; then 
I shall be "Kaput" veree quick. You see, I am 
practical; I see things clear. To-night I am a 
little emotional; the moon is funny, you know. 
But I live for myself only, now. I don't care for 
anything or anybody. 

Young Off. All the same, just now you were 
pitying your folk at home, and prisoners and that. 

Girl. Yees; because they suffer. Those who 
suffer are like me — I pity myself, that's all; I am 
different from your English women. I see what 
I am doing; I do not let my mind become a turnip 
just because I am no longer moral. 
Young Off. Nor your heart either, for all you say. 
Girl. Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But 
all that about love is 'umbog. We love ourselves, 
noting more. 

At that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he 

gets up, feeling stifled, and stands at the 

window. A newspaper hoy some way off 

is calling his wares. The Girl's fingers 

slip between his own, and stay unmoving. 

He looks round into her face. In spite of 

make-up it has a queer, unholy, touching 

beauty. 

Young Off. [With an outburst] No; we don't 

only love ourselves; there is more. I can't explain, 

but there's something great; there's kindness — and 

— and 

The shouting of newspaper boys grows louder, 



DEFEAT 109 

and their cries, passionately vehement, 
clash into each other and obscure each 
word. His head goes up to listen; her 
hand tightens within his arm — she too is 
listening. The cries come nearer, hoarser, 
more shrill and clamorous; the empty 
moonlight outside seems suddenly crowded 
with figures, footsteps, voices, and a fierce 
distant cheering. "Great victory — great 
victory! Official! British! ^Eavy 
defeat of the 'Uns! Many thousand 
prisoners! 'Eavy defeat!" It speeds 
by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful 
joy; he leans far out, waving his cap and 
cheering like a madman; the night seems 
to fiutter and vibrate and answer. He 
turns to rush down into the street, strikes 
against something soft, and recoils. The 
Girl stands with hands clenched, and 
face convulsed, panting. All confused 
with the desire to do something, he stoops 
to kiss her hand. She snatches away her 
fingers, sweeps up the notes he has put 
down, and holds them out to him. 
Girl. Take them — I will not haf your English 
monej^ — take them. 

Suddenly she tears them across, twice, thrice, 
lets the bits flutter to the floor, and turns 
her back on him. He stands looking at 
her leaning against the plush-covered 
table, her head down, a dark figure in 



1 10 DEFEAT 

a dark room, with the moonlight sharpening 
her outline. Hardly a moment he stays, 
then makes for the door. When he is gone, 
she still stands there, her chin on her breast, 
with the sound in her ears of cheering, of 
hurrying feet, and voices crying : " 'Eavy 
Defeat!^' stands, in the centre of a pat- 
tern made by the fragments of the torn-up 
notes, staring out into the moonlight, 
seeing not this hated room and the hated 
Sqmire outside, but a German orchard, 
and herself, a little girl, plux^king apples, 
a big dog beside her; and a hundred other 
pictures, such as the drowning see. Then 
she sinks down on the floor, lays her fore- 
head on the dusty carpet, and presses her 
body to it. Mechanically, she sweeps 
together the scattered fragments of notes, 
assembling them with the dust into a little 
pile, as of fallen leaves, and dabbling in it 
with her fingers, while the tears run down 
her cheeks. 
Girl. Defeat ! Der Vaterland ! Defeat ! . . . 
One shillin' ! 

Then suddenly, in the moonlight, she sits up, 
and begins to sing with all her might: 
''Die Wacht am Rhdn." And outside 
men pass, singing: "Ruhf Britannia T^ 



CURTAIN 



THE SUN 
A SCENE 



CHARACTERS 

The Girl. 
The Man. 
The Soldier. 



THE SUN 

A GiEL 8x18 crouched over her knees on a stile close to 
a river. A Man with a silver badge stands beside 
her, clutching the worn top plank. The Girl's 
level brows are drawn together; her eyes see her 
memories. The Man's eyes see The Girl; he 
has a dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; 
the quiet river flows; the Cuckoo is calling; the 
may flower is in bloom along the hedge that ends in 
the stile on the towing-path. 

The Girl. God knows what 'e'll say, Jim. 

The Man. Let 'im. 'E's come too late, that's all. 

The Girl. He couldn't come before. I'm 
frightened. 'E was fond o' me. 

The Man. And aren't I fond of you ? 

The Girl. I ought to 'a waited, Jim; with 'im 
in the fightin'. 

The Man. [Passionately] And what about me ? 
Aren't I been in the fightin' — earned all I could get ? 

The Girl. [Touching him] Ah ! 

The Man. Did you ? [He cannot speak the 

words.] 

The Girl. Not like you, Jim — not like you. 

The Man. Have a spirit, then. 

The Girl. I promised him. 

The Man. One man's luck's another's poison. 

113 



114 THE SUN 

The Girl. I ought to 'a waited. I never thought 
he'd come back from the fightin'. 

The Man. [Grimly] Maybe 'e'd better not 'ave. 

The Girl. [Looking back along the tow-path] 
What'll he be hke, I wonder ? 

The Man. [Gripping her shoulder] Daisy, don't 
you never go back on me, or I should kill you, and 
'im too. 

The Girl looks at him, shivers, and puts her 
lips to his. 

The Girl. I never could. 

The Man. Will you run for it ? 'E'd never find 
us. 

The Girl shakes her head. 

The Man [Dully] What's the good o' stayin' ? 
The world's wide. 

The Girl. I'd rather have it off me mind, with 
him home. 

The Man. [Clenching his hands] It's temptin' 
Providence. 

The Girl. AVhat's the time, Jim ? 

The Man. [Glancing at the sun] 'Alf past four. 

The Girl. [Looking along the towing-path] He said 
four o'clock. Jim, you better go. 

The Man. Not I. Fve not got the wind up. 
I've seen as much of hell as he has, any day. What 
like is he ? 

The Girl. [Dully] I dunno, just. I've not seen 
him these three years. I dunno no more, since I've 
known you. 

The Man. Big or little chap ? 



THE SUN 115 

The Girl. 'Bout your size. Oh ! Jim, go along ! 

The Man. No fear ! What's a blighter Hke that 
to old Fritz's shells ? We didn't shift when they was 
comin'. If you'll go, I'll go ; not else. 

Again she shakes her head. 

The Girl. Jim, do you love me true ? 

For answer The Man takes her avidly in his 
arms. 
I ain't ashamed — I ain't ashamed. If 'e could see 
me 'eart. 

The Man. Daisy ! If I'd known you out there, 
I never could 'a stuck it. They'd 'a got me for a 
deserter. That's how I love you ! 

The Girl. Jim, don't lift your hand to 'im ! 
Promise ! 

The Man. That's according. 

The Girl. Promise ! 

The Man. If 'e keeps quiet, I won't. But I'm 
not accountable — not always, I tell you straight — 
not since I've been through that. 

The Girl. [With a shiver] Nor p'raps he isn't. 

The Man. Like as not. It takes the lynch pins 
out, I tell you. 

The Girl. God 'elp us ! 

The Man. [Grimly] Ah ! We said that a bit too 
often. What we want we take, now; there's no 
one else to give it us, and there's no fear'U stop us; 
we seen the bottom of things. 

The Girl. P'raps he'll say that too. 

The Man. Then it'll be 'im or me. 

The Girl. Fm frightened. 



116 THE SUN 

The Man. [Tenderly] No, Daisy, no ! The river's 
handy. One more or less. 'E shan't 'arm you; 
nor me neither. [He takes out a knife.] 

The Girl. [Seizing his hand] Oh, no ! Give it 
to me, Jim ! 

The Man. [Smiling] No fear ! [He puts it away] 
Shan't 'ave no need for it Hke as not. All right, 
little Daisy; you can't be expected to see things 
like what we do. What's life, anyway ? I've seen 
a thousand lives taken in five minutes. I've seen 
dead men on the wires like flies on a flypaper. I've 
been as good as dead meself a hundred times. I've 
killed a dozen men. It's nothin'. He's safe, if 
'e don't get my blood up. If he does, nobody's 
safe; not 'im, nor anybody else; not even you. 
I'm speakin' sober. 

The Girl. [Softly] Jim, you won't go fightin' in 
the sun, with the birds all callin' ? 

The Man. That depends on 'im. I'm not lookin' 
for it. Daisy, I love you. I love your hair. I love 
your eyes. I love you. 

The Girl. And I love you, Jim. I don't want 
nothin' more than you in all the world. 

The Man. Amen to that, my dear. Kiss me 
close ! 

The sound of a voice singing breaks in on their 
embrace. The Girl starts from his arms, 
and looks behind her along the towing-path. 
The Man draws back against the hedge, 
fingering his side, where the knife is hidden. 
The song comes nearer. 



THE SUN 11'? 

"I'll be right there to-night, 
Where the fields are snowy white ; 
Banjos ringing, darkies singing. 
All the world seems bright." 
The Girl. It's him ! 

The Man. Don't get the wind up, Daisy. I'm 
here ! 

The singing stops. A man^s voice says: 

'* Christ! It's Daisy; it's little Daisy 

'erself !" The Girl stands rigid. The 

figure of a soldier appears on the other side 

of the stile. His cap is tucked into his belt, 

his hair is bright in the sunshine; he is 

lean, wasted, brown, and laughing. 

Soldier. Daisy! Daisy! Hallo, old pretty girl ! 

The Girl does not move, barring the way, as 

it were. 

The Girl. Hallo, Jack ! [Softly] I got things to 

tell you ! 

Soldier. What sort o' things, this lovely day ? 
Why, I got things that'd take me years to tell. Have 
you missed me, Daisy ? 

The Girl. You been so long. 

Soldier. So I 'ave. My Gawd ! It's a way they 
'ave in the Army. I said when I got out of it I'd 
laugh. Like as the sun itself I used to think of you, 
Daisy, when the crumps was comin' over, and the 
wind was up. D'you remember that last night in 
the wood? "Come back and marry me quick. 
Jack." Well, here I am— got me pass to heaven. 
No more fightin', no more drillin', no more sleepin' 



118 THE SUN 

rough. We jcan get married now, Daisy. We can 
live soft an' 'appy. Give us a kiss, my dear. 

The Girl. [Drawing back] No. 

Soldier. [Blankly] Why not ? 

The Man, with a swift movement steps along 
the hedge to The Girl's side. 

The Man. That's why, soldier. 

Soldier. [Leaping over the stile] 'Oo are you, 
Pompey ? The sun don't shine in your inside, do 
it ? 'Oo is he, Daisy ? 

The Girl. My man. 

Soldier. Your — man ! Lummy ! "Taffy was 
a Welshman, Taffy was a thief !" Well, mate ! 
So you've been through it, too. I'm laughin' this 
mornin' as luck will 'ave it. Ah ! I can see your knife. 

The Man. [Who has half drawn his knife] Don't 
laugh at me, I tell you. 

Soldier. Not at you, not at you. [He looks from 
one to the other] I'm laughin' at things in general. 
Where did you get it, mate ? 

The Man. [Watchfully] Through the lung. 

Soldier. Think o' that ! An' I never was 
touched. Four years an' never was touched. An' 
so you've come an' took my girl ! Nothin' doin' ! 
Ha ! [Again he looks from one to the other — then away] 
Well ! The world's before me ! [He laughs] I'll 
give you Daisy for a lung protector. 

The Man. [Fiercely] You won't. I've took her. 

Soldier. That's all right, then. You keep 'er. 
I've got a laugh in me you can't put out, black as you 
look ! Good-bye, little Daisy ! 



THE SUN 119 

The Girl makes a movement towards him. 

The Man. Don't touch 'im ! 

The Girl stands hesitating, and suddenly 
bursts into tears. 

Soldier. Look 'ere, mate ; shake 'ands ! I don't 
want to see a girl cry, this day of all, with the sun 
shinin'. I seen too much of sorrer. You and me've been 
at the back of it. We've 'ad our whack. Shake ! 

The Man. Who are you kiddin' ? You never 
loved 'er ! 

Soldier. [After a long moment's pause] Oh ! I 
thought I did. 

The Man. I'll fight you for her. 

He drops his krdfe. 

Soldier. [Slowly] Mate, you done your bit, an' 
I done mine. It's took us two ways, seemin'ly. 

The Girl. [Pleading] Jim ! 

The Man. [With clenched fists] I don't want 'is 
charity. I only want what I can take. 

Soldier. Daisy, which of us will you 'ave ? 

The Girl. [Covering her face] Oh ! Him! 

Soldier. You see, mate ! Put your 'ands down. 
There's nothin' for it but a laugh. You an' me 
know that. Laugh, mate ! 

The Man. You blarsted ! 

The Girl springs to him and stops his mouth. 

Soldier. It's no use, mate. I can't do it. I said 
I'd laugh to-day, and laugh I will. I've come through 
that, an' all the stink of it; I've come through 
sorrer. Never again ! Cheerio, mate ! The sun's 
a-shinin' ! He turns away. 



120 THE SUN 

The Girl. Jack, don't think too 'ard of me ! 

Soldier. [Looking back] No fear, my dear ! 
Enjoy your fancy ! So long ! Gawd bless you 
both! 

He sings, and goes along the path, and the song : 

''I'll be right there to-night 
Where the fields are snowy white ; 
Banjos ringing, darkies singing — 
All the world seems bright ! " 

fades away. 
The Man. 'E's mad. 

The Girl. [Looking down the path with her hands 
clasped] The sun has touched 'im, Jim ! 



curtain 



PUNCH AND GO 

A LITTLE COMEDY 

"Orpheus with his lute made trees 
And the mountain tops that freeze. . . ." 



PERSONS OF THE PLAY 



James G. Frust 
E. Blewitt Vane 
Mr Foreson . 
"Electrics" . 
"Props" 
Herbert 



The Boss. 
The Producer. 
The Stage Manager. 
The Electrician. 
The Property Man. 
The Call Boy. 



OF THE PLAY WITHIN THE PLAY 



Gut Toone . 
Vanessa Hellgrove 
George Fleetway 
Maude Hopkins . 



The Professor. 
The Wife. 
Orpheus. 
The Faun. 



SCENE: The Stage of a Theatre. 
Action continuous, though the curtain is momentarily lowered 
according to that action. 



I 



PUNCH AND GO 

The Scene is the stage of the theatre set for the dress 
rehearsal of the little play: "Orpheus with his 
Lute." The curtain is up and the audience, 
though present, is not supposed to be. The set 
scene represents the end section of a room, with 
wide French windows. Back Centre, fully opened 
on to an apple orchard in hloom. The Back 
Wall with these French windows, is set only 
about ten feet from the footlights, and the rest of 
the stage is orchard. What is visible of the room 
would indicate the study of a writing man of 
culture.^ In the wall. Stage Left, is a curtained 
opening, across which the curtain is half drawn. 
Stage Right of the French windows is a large 
armchair turned rather towards the window, 
with a book rest attached, on which is a volume 
of the Encyclopedia Britannica, while on a stool 
alongside are writing materials such as a man 
requires when he writes with a pad on his knees. 
On a little table close by is a reading-lamp with a 
dark green shade. A crude light from the floats 
makes the stage stare; the only person on it is 

1 Note.—li found advantageous for scenic purposes, this 
section of room can be changed to a broad verandah or porch 
with pillars supporting its roof. 



124 PUNCH AND GO 

Mr Foreson, the stage manager, who is standing 
in the centre looking upwards as if waiting for 
someone to speak. He is a short, broad man, 
rather blank, and fatal. From the back of the 
auditorium, or from an empty box, whichever is 
most convenient, the producer, Mr Blewitt 
Vane, a man of about thirty-four^ with his hair 
brushed back, speaks. 

Vane. Mr Foreson ? 

Foreson. Sir ? 

Vane. Well do that lighting again. 

Foreson walks straight off the Stage into the 
wings Right. A pause. 
Mr Foreson ! [Crescendo] Mr Foreson. 

Foreson walks on again from Right and 
shades his eyes. 
Vane. For goodness sake, stand by ! We'll do that 
lighting again. Check your floats. 

Foreson. [Speaking up into the prompt wings] 
Electrics ! 
Voice of Electrics. Hallo ! 
Foreson. Give it us again. Check your floats. 

The floats go down, and there is a sudden 
blinding glare of blue lights, in which 
Foreson looks particularly ghastly. 
Vane. Great Scott ! What the blazes ! Mr Foreson ! 
Foreson walks straight out into the wings 
Left. Crescendo. 
Mr Foreson ! 
Foreson. [Re-appearing] Sir ? 



PUNCH AND GO 125 

Vane. Tell Miller to come down. 
FoRESON. Electrics ! Mr Blewitt Vane wants to 
speak to you. Come down ! 
Vane. Tell Herbert to sit in that chair. 

FoRESON walks straight out into the Right 
wings. 
Mr Foreson ! 
FoRESON. [Re-appearing] Sir ? 
Vane. Don't go off the stage. [Foreson mutters. 
Electrics appears from the wings, Stage 
Left. He is a dark, thin-faced man with 
rather spikey hair. 
Electrics. Yes, Mr Vane? 
Vane. Look ! 

Electrics. That's what I'd got marked, Mr Vane. 
Vane. Once for all, what I want is the orchard 
in full moonlight, and the room dark except for the 
reading lamp. Cut off your front battens. 

Electrics withdraws Left. Foreson walks 
off the Stage into the Right wings. 
Mr Foreson ! 
Foreson. [Re-appearing] Su* ? 
Vane. See this marked right. Now, come on 
with it ! I want to get some beauty into this ! 

While he is speaking, Herbert, the call boy, 
appears from the wings Right, a mercurial 
youth of about sixteen with a wide mouth. 
Foreson. [Maliciously] Here you are, then, Mr 
Vane. Herbert, sit in that chair. 

Herbert sits in the armchair, with an air of 
perfect peace. 



126 PUNCH AND GO 

Vane. Now ! [All the lights go out. In a wail] 
Great Scott ! 

A throaty chuckle from Foreson in the 
darkness. The light dances up, flickers, 
shifts, grows steady, falling on the orchard 
outside. The reading lamp darts alight 
and a piercing little glare from it strikes 
into the auditorium away from Herbert. 
[In a terrible voice] Mr Foreson. 
Foreson. Sir ? 
Vane. Look — at — that — shade ! 

Foreson mutters, walks up to it and turns it 
round so that the light shines on Herbert's 
legs. 
On his face, on his face ! 

Foreson turns the light accordingly. 
Foreson. Is that what you want, Mr Vane ? 
Vane. Yes. Now, mark that ! 
Foreson. [Up into wings Right] Electrics ! 
Elsctrics. Hallo ! 
Foreson. Mark that ! 

The blu£ suddenly becomes amber. 
Vane. My God ! 

The blue returns. All is steady. Herbert 
is seen diverting himself with an imaginery 
cigar. 
Mr Foreson. 
Foreson. Sir ? 

Vane. Ask him if he's got that ? 
Foreson. Have you got that ? 
Electrics. Yes. 



PUNCH AND GO 127 

Vane. Now pass to the change. Take your 
floats off altogether. 

FoRESON. [Calling up] Floats out. [They go out.] 
Vane. Cut off that lamp. [The lamp goes out] 
Put a little amber in your back batten. Mark that ! 
Now pass to the end. Mr Foreson ! 
FoRESON. Sir ? 
Vane. Black out ! 
Foreson. [Calling up] Black out ! 

The lights go out. 
Vane. Give us your first lighting — lamp on. And 
then the two changes. Quick as you can. Put 
some pep into it. Mr Foreson ! 
Foreson. Sir ? 

Vane. Stand for me where Miss Hellgrove comes in. 
Foreson crosses to the window. 
No, no ! — by the curtain. 

Foreson takes his stand by the curtain; 

and suddenly the three lighting effects are 

rendered quickly and with miraculous 

exactness. 

Good ! Leave it at that. We'll begin. Mr Foreson, 

send up to Mr Frust. 

He moves from the auditorium and ascends on 
to the Stage, by some steps Stage Right. 
Foreson. Herb ! Call the boss, and tell beginners 
to stand by. Sharp, now ! 

Herbert gets out of the chair, and goes off 

Right. 
Foreson is going off Left as Vane mounts 
the Stage. 



128 PUNCH AND GO 

Vane. Mr Foreson. 

FoRESON. [Re-appearing] Sir ? 

Vane. I want *' Props." 

Foreson. [In a stentorian voice] "Props !" 

A rather moth-eaten man appears through 
the French windows. 
Vane. Is that boulder firm ? 

Props. [Going to where, in front of the hack-cloth, 
and apparently among its apple trees, lies the counter- 
feitment of a mossy boulder; he puts his foot on it] 
If you don't put too much weight on it, sir. 
Vane. It won't creak ? 

Props. Nao. [He mounts on it, and a dolorous 
creaking arises.] 
Vane. Make that right. Let me see that lute. 

Props produces a property lute. 
While they scrutinize it, a broad man with 
broad leathery clean-shaven face and small 
mouth, occupied by the butt end of a cigar, 
has come on to the stage from Stage Left, 
and stands waiting to be noticed. 
Props. [Attracted by the scent of the cigar] The 
Boss, sir. 
Vane. [Turning to "Props"] That'll do, then. 

"Props" goes out through the French 
windows. 
Vane. [To Trust] Now, sir, we're all ready for 
rehearsal of "Orpheus with his Lute." 

Frust. [In a cosmopolitan voice] "Orphoos 
with his loot!" That his loot, Mr Vane? Why 
didn't he pinch something more precious ? Has 



i 



PUNCH AND GO 129 

this high-brow curtain-raiser of yours got any ''pep" 
in it ? 

Vane. It has charm. 

Frust. I'd thought of "Pop goes the Weasel" 
with little Miggs. We kind of want a cock-tail 
before "Louisa loses," Mr Vane. 

Vane. Well, sir, you'll see. 

Frust. This your lighting? It's a bit on the 
spiritool side. I've left my glasses. Guess I'll sit 
in the front row. Ha'f a minute. Who plays this 
Orphoos ? 

Vane. George Fleetway. 

Frust. Has he got punch ? 

Vane. It's a very small part. 

Frust. Who are the others ? 

Vane. Guy Toone plays the Professor; Vanessa 
Hellgrove his wife ; Maude Hopkins the faun. 

Frust. H'm ! Names don't draw. 

Vane. They're not expensive, any of them. 
Miss Hellgrove's a find, I think. 

Frust. Pretty ? 

Vane. Quite. 

Frust. Arty ? 

Vane. [Doubtfully] No. [With resolution] Look 
here, Mr Frust, it's no use your expecting another 
"Pop goes the Weasel." 

Frust. We-ell, if it's got punch and go, that'll 
be enough for me. Let's get to it ! 

He extinguishes his cigar and descends the 
steps and sits in the centre of the front row 
of the stalls. 



130 PUNCH AND GO 

Vane. Mr Foreson ? 

FoRESON. [Appearing through curtain, Right] Sir ? 

Vane. Beginners. Take your curtain down. 

He descends the steps and seats himself next 

to Frust. The curtain goes down. 
A woman^s voice is heard singing very beauti- 
fully Sullivan's song: "Orpheus with his 
lute, with his lute made trees and the 
mountain tops that freeze" etc. 
Frust. Some voice ! 

The curtain rises. 

In the armchair the Professor is yawning, 

tall, thin, abstracted, and slightly grizzled 

in the hair. He has a pad of paper on 

his knee, ink on the stool to his right and 

the Encyclopedia volume on the stand to his 

left — barricaded in fact by the article he 

is writing. He is reading a page over to 

himself, but the words are drowned in the 

sound of the song his Wife is singing in the 

next room, partly screened off by the curtain. 

She finishes, and stops. His voice can 

then be heard conning the words of his 

article. 

Prof. "Orpheus symbolized the voice of Beauty, 

the call of life, luring us mortals with his song back 

from the graves we dig for ourselves. Probably the 

ancients realized this neither more nor less than we 

moderns. Mankind has not changed. The civilized 

being still hides the faun and the dryad within its 

broadcloth and its silk. And yet" [He stops^ 



PUNCH AND GO 131 

toith a dried-up air — rather impatiently] Go on, my 
dear ! It helps the atmosphere. 

The voice of his Wife begins again, gets as 
far as "made them sing" and stops dead, 
just as the Professor's pen is beginning 
to scratch. And suddenly, drawing the 
curtain further aside. 
She appears. Much younger than the Pro- 
fessor, pale, very pretty, of a Botticellian 
type in face, figure, and in her clinging 
cream-coloured frock. She gazes at her 
abstracted husband; then swiftly moves to 
the lintel of the open window, and stands 
looking out. 
The Wife. God ! What beauty ! 
Prof. [Looking up] Umm ? 
The Wife. I said: God ! What beauty ! 
Prof. Aha ! 

The Wife. [Looking at him] Do you know that 
I have to repeat everything to you nowadays ? 
Prof. What ! 

The Wife. That I have to repeat 

Prof. Yes ; I heard. I'm sorry. I get absorbed. 
The Wife. In all but me. 

Prof. [Startled] My dear, your song was helping 
me like anything to get the mood. This paper is 
the very deuce — to balance between the historical 
and the natural. 
The Wife. Who wants the natural ? 
Prof. [Grumbling] Ummm ! Wish / thought 
that ! Modern taste ! History may go hang ; 



132 PUNCH AND GO 

they're all for tuppence-coloured sentiment 
nowadays. 

The Wife. [As if to herself] Is the Spring 
sentiment ? 

Prof. I beg your pardon, my dear ; I didn't catch. 

Wife. [As if against her will — urged by some 
pent-up force] Beauty, beauty ! 

Prof. That's what I'm trying to say here. The 
Orpheus legend symbolizes to this day the call of 
Beauty ! [He takes up his pen, while she continues 
to stare out at the moonlight. Yawning] Dash it ! 
I get so sleepy; I wish you'd tell them to make the 
after-dinner coffee twice as strong. 

Wife. I will. 

Prof. How does this strike you ? [Conning] 
''Many Renaissance pictures, especially those of 
Botticelli, Francesca and Piero di Cosimo were 
inspired by such legends as that of Orpheus, and 
we owe a tiny gem-like Raphael 'Apollo and 
Marsyas' to the same Pagan inspiration." 

Wife. We owe it more than that — ^rebellion 
against the dry-as-dust. 

Prof. Quite I might develop that: "We owe 
it our revolt against the academic; or our disgust 
at 'big business,' and all the grossness of commercial 
success. We owe " [His voice peters out.] 

Wife. It — ^love. 

Prof. [Abstracted] Eh ? 

Wife. I said: We owe it love. 

Prof. [Rather startled] Possibly. But — er — 
[With a dry smile] I mustn't say that here — hardly ! 



I 



PUNCH AND GO 133 

Wife. [To herself and the moonlight] Orpheus with 
his lute I 

Prof. Most people think a lute is a sort of flute. 
[Yawning heavily] My dear, if you're not going to 
sing again, d'you mind sitting down ? I want to 
concentrate. 

Wife. I'm going out. 
Prof. Mind the dew ! 
Wife. The Christian virtues and the dew. 
Prof. [With a little dry laugh] Not bad ! Not 
bad ! The Christian virtues and the dew. [His 
hand takes up his pen, his face droops over his paper, 
while his wife looks at him with a very strange face] 
"How far we can trace the modern resurgence 
against the Christian virtues to the symbolic figures 
of Orpheus, Pan, Apollo, and Bacchus might be 

difficult to estimate, but " 

During those words his Wife has passed 

through the window into the moonlight, 

and her voice rises, singing as she goes: 

*' Orpheus with his lute, with his lute 

made trees . . ." 

Prof. [Suddenly aware of something] She'll get 

her throat bad. [He is silent as the voice swells in 

the distance] Sounds queer at night — H'm ! [He is 

silent — Yawning. The voice dies away. Suddenly 

his head nods; he fights his drowsiness; writes a 

word or two, nods again, and in twenty seconds is 

asleep.] 

The Stage is darkened by a black-out. 
Frust's voice is heard speaking. 



134 PUNCH AND GO 

Frust. What's that girl's name ? 

Vane. Vanessa Hellgrove. 

Fkust. Aha ! 

The Stage is lighted up again. Moonlight 
bright on the orchard; the room in darkness 
where the Professor's figure is just visible 
sleeping in the chair, and screwed a little 
more round towards the window. From 
behind the mossy boulder a faun-like 
figure uncurls itself and peeps over with 
ears standing up and elbows leaning on 
the stone, playing a rustic pipe; and 
there are seen two rabbits and a fox sitting 
up and listening. A shiver of wind 
passes, blowing petals from the apple-trees. 
The Faun darts his head towards where, from 
Right, comes slowly the figure of a Greek 
youth, holding a lute or lyre which his 
fingers strike, lifting out little wandering 
strains as of wind whinnying in funnels 
and odd corners. The Faun darts down 
behind tJie stone, and the youth stands by 
the boulder playing his lute. Slowly 
while he plays the whitened trunk of an 
apple-tree is seen to dissolve into the body 
of a girl with bare arms and feet, her dark 
hair unbound, and the face of the Pro- 
fessor's Wife. Hypnotized, she slowly 
sways towards him, their eyes fixed on 
each other, till she is quite close. Her 
arms go out to him, cling round his neck, 



PUNCH AND GO 135 

and, their lips meet. But as they meet 
there comes a gasp and the Professor 
with rumpled hair is seen starting from 
his chair, his hands thrown up; and at 
his horrified ''Oh!" the Stage is darkened 
with a black-out. 

The voice of Frust is heard speaking. 
Frust. Gee ! 

The Stage is lighted up again, as in the 
opening scene. The Professor is seen 
in his chair, with spilt sheets of paper 
round him, waking from a dream. He 
shakes himself, pinches his leg, stares 
heavily round into the moonlight, rises. 
Prof. Phew ! Beastly dream ! Boof ! H'm ! 

He moves to the window and calls. 
Blanche ! Blanche ! [To himself] Made trees — made 
trees ! [Calling] Blanche ! 
Wife's Voice. Yes. 
Prof. Where are you ? 

Wife. [Appearing by the stone with her hair down] 
Here ! 

Prof. I say — I — I've been asleep — had a dream. 
Come in. I'll tell you. 

She comes, and they stand in the window. 
Prof. I dreamed I saw a — faun on that boulder 
blowing on a pipe. [He looks nervously at the stone] 
With two damned Uttle rabbits and a fox sitting up 
and Ustening. And then from out there came our 
friend Orpheus playing on his confounded lute, 
till he actually turned that tree there into you. 



136 PUNCH AND GO 

And gradually he — he drew you like a snake till you 
— er — put your arms round his neck and — er — 
kissed him. Boof ! I woke up. Most unpleasant. 
Why I Your hair's down ! 

Wife. Yes. 

Prof. Why ? 

Wife. It was no dream. He was bringing me 
to life. 

Prof. What on earth 

Wife. Do you suppose I am alive ? I'm as dead 
as Euridice. 

Prof. Good heavens, Blanche, what's the matter 
with you to-night ? 

Wife. [Pointing to the litter of papers] Why don't 
we live, instead of writing of it ? [She points out 
into the moonlight] What do we get out of life ? 
Money, fame, fashion, talk, learning ? Yes. And 
what good are they ? I want to live ! 

Prof. [Helplessly] My dear, I really don't know 
what you mean. 

Wife. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look ! 
Orpheus with his lute, and nobody can see him. 
Beauty, beauty, beauty — we let it go. [With sudden 
passion] Beauty, love, the spring. They should be 
in us, and they're all outside. 

Prof. My dear, this is — this is — awful. [He tries 
to embrace her.] 

Wife. [Avoiding him — in a stilly voice] Oh ! Go 
on with your writing ! 

Prof. I'm — I'm upset. I've never known you 
so — so 



PUNCH AND GO 137 

Wife. Hj^sterical ? Well ! It's over. FU go 
and sing. 

Prof. [Soothingly] There, there ! I'm sorry, 
darling; I really am. You're hipped— you're 
hipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss] Better ? 

He gravitates towards his papers. 
All right, now ? 
Wife. [Standing still and looking at him] Quite ! 
Prof. Well, I'll try and finish this to-night; 
then, to-morrow we might have a jaunt. How 
about a theatre ? There's a thing— they say- 
called ''Chinese Chops," that's been running 
years. 

Wife. [Softly to herself as he settles down into his 
chair] Oh ! God ! 

While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts 
himself, she stands at the window staring 
with all her might at the boulder, till from 
behind it the faun's head and shoulders 
emerge once more. 
Prof. Very queer the power suggestion has over 
the mind. Very queer ! There's nothing really in 
animism, you know, except the curious shapes 
rocks, trees and things take in certain lights— effect 
they have on our imagination. [He looks up] What's 
the matter now ? 
Wife. [Startled] Nothing ! Nothing ! 

Her eyes waver to him again, and the Faun 
vanishes. She turns again to look at the 
boulder; there is nothing there; a little 
shiver of wind blows some petals off the 



138 PUNCH AND GO 

trees. She catches one of ihem, and turning 
quickly, goes out through the curtain. 
Prof. [Coming to himself and writing] "The 
Orpheus legend is the — er — apotheosis of animism. 

Can we accept " [His voice is lost in the sound 

of his Wife's voice beginning again: "Orpheus with 

his lute — with his lute made trees " It dies in 

a sob. The Professor looks up startled, as the 
curtain falls]. 

Frust. Fine ! Fine ! 

Vane. Take up the curtain. Mr Foreson ? 

The curtain goes up. 
Foreson. Sir ? 
Vane. Everybody on. 

He and Frust leave their seats and ascend 
on to the Stage, on which are collecting the 
four Players. 
Vane. Give us some light. 
Foreson. Electrics ! Turn up your floats ! 

The footlights go up, and the blue goes out; 

the light is crude as at the beginning. 

Frust. I'd Uke to meet Miss Hellgrove. [She 

comes . forward eagerly and timidly. He grasps her 

hand] Miss Hellgrove, I Want to say I thought that 

fine — fine. [Her evident emotion and pleasure warm 

him so that he increases his grasp and commendation] 

Fine. It quite got my soft spots. Emotional. Fine ! 

Miss H. Oh I Mr Frust; it means so much to 

me. Thank you ! 

Frust. [A little balder in the eye, and losing warmth] 
Er — ^fine ! [His eye wanders] Where's Mr Flatway ? 



PUNCH AND GO 139 

Vane. Fleetway. 

Fleetway comes up. 
Frust. Mr Fleetway, I want to say I thought 
your Orphoos very remarkable. Fine. 

Fleetway. Thank you, sir, indeed — so glad you 
liked it. 

Frust. [A little balder in the eye] There wasn't 
much to it, but what there was was fine. Mr Toone. 
Fleetway melts out and Toone is precipi- 
tated. 
Mr Toone, I was very pleased with your Professor — 
quite a character-study. [Toone bows and murmurs] 
Yes, sir ! I thought it fine. [His eye grows bald] 
Who plays the goat ? 

Miss Hopk. [Appearing suddenly between the 
windows] I play the faun, Mr Frust. 

FoRESON. [Introducing] Miss Maude 'Opkins. 
Frust. Miss Hopkins, I guess your fawn was 
fine. 

Miss Hopk. Oh ! Thank you, Mr Frust. How 
nice of you to say so. I do so enjoy playing him. 

Frust. [His eye growing bald] Mr Foreson, I 
thought the way you fixed that tree was very cunning ; 
I certainly did. Got a match ? 

He takes a match from Foreson, and lighting 
a very long cigar, walks up Stage through the 
French windows followed by Foreson, and 
examines the apple-tree. 
The two Actors depart, but Miss Hellgrove 
runs from where she has been lingering, 
by the curtain, to Vane, Stage Right. 



140 PUNCH AND GO 

Miss H. Oh ! Mr Vane — do you think ? He 
seemed quite — Oh ! Mr Vane [ecstatically] If 

only 

Vane. [Pleased and happy] Yes, yes. All right — 

you were splendid. He liked it. He quite 

Miss H. [Clasping her hand] How wonderful ! 
Oh, Mr Vane, thank you! 

She clasps his hands; but suddenly, seeing 
that Frust is coming back, fiits across 
to the curtain and vanishes. 
The Stage, in the crude light, is empty now save 
for Frust, who, in the French windows, 
Centre, is mumbling his cigar; and 
Vane, Stage Right, who is looking up into 
the wings, Stage Left. 
Vane. [Calling up] That lighting's just right 
now, Miller. Got it marked carefully ? 
Electrics. Yes, Mr Vane. 
Vane. Good. [To Frust who is coming down] 

Well, sir ? So glad 

Frust. Mr Vane, we got little Miggs on contract ? 
Vane. Yes. 

Frust. Well, I liked that little pocket piece fine. 
But I'm blamed if I know what it's all about. 

Vane. [A little staggered] Why ! Of course it's 
a little allegory. The tragedy of civilization — all 
real feeling for Beauty and Nature kept out, or 
pent up even in the cultured. 

Frust. Ye-ep. [Meditatively] Little Miggs'd be 
fine in "Pop goes the Weasel." 
Vane. Yes, he'd be all right, but 



PUNCH AND GO 141 

Frtjst. Get him on the 'phone, and put it into 
rehearsal right now. 

Vane. What ! But this piece — I — I ! 

Frust. Guess we can't take liberties with our 
pubUc, Mr Vane. They want pep. 

Vane. [Distressed] But it'll break that girl's 
heart. I — really — I can't 

Frust. Give her the part of the 'tweeny in "Pop 
goes.'* 

Vane. Mr Frust, I — ^I beg. I've taken a lot of 
trouble with this little play. It's good. It's that 
girl's chance — and I 

Frust. We-ell ! I certainly thought she was 
fine. Now, you 'phone up Miggs, and get right 
along with it. I've only one rule, sir ! Give the 
Public what it wants, and what the Public wants is 
punch and go. They've got no use for Beauty, 
Allegory, all that high-brow racket. I know 'em 
as I know my hand. 

During this speech Miss Hellgrove is seen 
listening by the French window, in distress, 
unnoticed by either of them. 

Vane. Mr Frust, the Public would take this, I'm 
sure they would; I'm convinced of it. You under- 
rate them. 

Frust. Now, see here, Mr Blewitt Vane, is this 
my theatre ? I tell you, I can't afford luxuries. 

Vane. But it — ^it moved you, sir; I saw it. I 
was watching. 

Frust. [With unmoved finality] Mr Vane, I judge 
I'm not the average man. Before "Louisa Loses" 



142 PUNCH AND GO 

the Public'll want a stimulant. "Pop goes the 
Weasel" will suit us fine. So — get right along with 
it. I'll go get some lunch. 

As he vanishes into the wings, Left, Miss 
Hellgrove covers her face with her 
hands. A little sob escaping her attracts 
Vane's attention. He takes a step towards 
her, but she flies. 
Vane. [Dashing his hands through his hair till it 
stands up] Damnation ! 

FoRESON walks on from the wings. Right. 
FoRESON. Sir ? 
Vane. "Punch and go !'* That superstition! 

FoREsoN walks straight out into the wings, 
Left. 
Vane. Mr Foreson ! 
Foreson. [Re-appearing] Sh* ? 
Vane. This is scrapped. [With savagery] Tell 'em 
to set the first act of "Louisa Loses," and put some 
pep into it. 

He goes out through the French windows with 
the wind still in his hair. 
Foreson. [In the centre of the Stage] Electrics ! 
Electrics. Hallo ! 
Foreson. Where's Charlie ? 
Electrics. Gone to his dinner. 
Foreson. Anybody on the curtain ? 
A Voice. Yes, Mr Foreson. 
Foreson. Put your curtain down. 

He stands in the centre of the Stage with eyes 
uplifted as the curtain descends. 



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